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SHAKSPERE 
AND    HIS   FORERUNNERS 


The  Chandos  Portrait  of  Shakspere 


SHAKSPERE 


AND  HIS  FORERUNNERS 


STUDIES   IN   ELIZABETHAN  POETRY 

AND  ITS  DEVELOPMENT  FROM 

EARLY  ENGLISH 


BY 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


ILLUSTRATED 


VOLUME  TWO 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  CO. 

1902 


Copyright,  1901,  by 

J.    B.    LiPPINCOTT    Co. 

Copyright,   1901,  by 
Modern   Culture  Co. 

Copyright,  1902,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,    PaGE  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  XIII      The   Music  of  Shakspere's   Time — I 

To  show  that  music  was  very  dear  to  the  English  of  Shakspere's 
time,  and  that  the  latter  himself  was  particularly  devoted  to  it 
—  the  popular  love  for  music  among  the  English  much  under- 
estimated—  development  of  the  feeling  in  America — people  in 
all  ranks  of  society  in  the  sixteenth  century  either  sang  or 
played  upon  some  instrument — Henry  VIII's  personal  taste  for 
music — Queen  Elizabeth's  musical  achievements  and  Shak- 
spere's allusion  to  them  —  "divisions"' — evidence  in  The 
Winter'' 5  Tale  of  musical  knowledge  among  the  lowest  classes 
— ^universality  of  part-song  intimated  also  in  Twelfth  Night  — 
base  viols  kept  in  the  drawing-room  for  amusement  of  waiting 
visitors  —  barber-shops  had  virginals  in  one  corner  —  nature  of 
the  virginals  —  the  cittern  found  in  the  same  place — the  latter 
the  most  popular  instrument  of  the  time  —  important  functions 
of  the  barber — many  musical  similes  in  the  poetry  of  the 
period  —  Thomas  Tusser's  advice  to  choose  tuneful  servants  — 
distaste  for  music  associated  with  dishonesty  —  music  in  the 
education  of  young  ladies  —  musical  scenes  from  Taming  of  the 
Shrew  —  several  music-teachers  to  royalty  who  came  to  un- 
timely ends  —  great  number  of  ballads  —  Chaucer's  testimony  as 
to  English  love  of  music  —  Langland's  Plowman  reproaches 
the  clergy  for  knowing  no  "mynstralcy" — interesting  to 
note  that  with  all  this  love  for  music  there  has  never  been  a  great 
English  composer — same  conditions  true  of  women — a  hun- 
dred and  sixty-seven  references  to  music  in  the  plays,  most  of 
which  show  Shakspere's  passionate  love  for  the  art  —  instances 
of  his  deep  musical  understanding  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
and  Richard  II —  wonderful  stories  of  the  power  of  music  in 
ancient  times — Saxo  Grammaticus's  tale  of  King  Eric  of  Den- 
mark and  his  harper  —  Rabbinical  fable  of  Adam's  soul  —  out- 
line of  next  lecture. 


PAGE 


Chapter   XIV      The    Music  of  Shakspere's  Time — II 

v 


28 


vl  CONTENTS 

The  music  that  Shakspere  knew — "discant"  —  Pope  Gregory 
the  Great  and  his  antiphonarium,  or  collection  of  the  Gregorian 
chants  —  composers  in  Shaksperc's  time  did  not  attempt  to 
originate  new  tunes,  but  treated  old  ones  contrapuntally — great 
age  of  many  of  the  Gregorian  chants  —  Bishop  Ambrose  of 
Milan  and  his  use  of  psalms  and  hymns  as  a  means  of  consola- 
tion—  St,  Augustine's  pleasure  in  the  Ambrosian  chant  — 
these  hymns  referred  to  by  Pliny  in  the  second  century  —  the 
world  in  possession  of  a  stock  of  tunes  as  far  back  as  the  begin- 
ning of  our  era,  as  shown  by  the  Gospels  —  hymn  sung  by  the 
disciples  on  the  evening  of  the  Last  Supper  possibly  used  in  the 
churches  to-day — some  of  our  tunes  probably  much  older  than 
the  Christian  era  —  definition  of  discant  from  the  old  play  of 
Damon  and  Pphias — Cuckoo  Song  the  first  English  verse  with 
music  attached  —  discovered  on  a  monk's  commonplace- 
book  in  Harleian  Library  —  slow  progress  of  music  in  those 
times  —  analysis  of  Cuckoo  Song  as  a  typical  song  of  Shakspere's 
day  —  this  a  "  canon  in  the  unison  with  a  burden"  —  many 
varieties,  such  as  motett,  fugue,  round,  etc. — "prolation  " 
and  "  division  "  —  "  extempore  discant  "  and  **  prick- 
song  "  — origin  of  term  •'  counterpoint  "  —  "  plain  song  "  and 
"plain  chant"  terms  closely  associated  with  this  contrapuntal 
music — rage  for  part-songs  in  sixteenth  century  —  story  of  Dr. 
John  Bull  which  illustrates  this  —  religious  objections  to  these 
musical  extravagances  in  the  churches  —  the  words  a  mere  "  pre- 
tence for  singing,"  according  to  Dr.  Burney  —  an  old  poem 
upon  the  woes  of  a  music  pupil — impressment  of  children  in 
order  to  keep  up  the  cathedral  choirs  —  Marbeck  publishes 
the  Book  of  Common  Prater  Notes  — versification  of  Psalms  by 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins  —  Dr.  Christopher  Tye's  versification 
of  the  Acts — his  retort  to  Queen  Elizabeth  —  Clement  Marot 
and  Theodore  Beza  versify  the  Psalms  in  French  —  Calvin  has 
the  Psalms  set  to  music  —  some  forgotten  composers  who  as- 
sisted in  this  work  —  some  of  the  psalm-tunes  of  secular  origin 
—  Clown's  remark  in  Winter'' s  Tale  about  the  Puritan  who 
"sings  psalms  to  hornpipes"  —  mention  of  Green  Sleeves 
and  the  Hundredth  Psalm  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  — 
the  latter  noble  melody  arranged  by  Claude  Lejeune  —  some 
other  composers  of  sacred  music —  the  most  prominent  forms 
of  secular  music  —  derivations  of  the  name  and  nature  o^  the 
madrigal  —  its  great  popularity  — a  typical  madrigal  by  Thomas 
Weelkes  —  first  English  ones  written  by  William  Bird — The 
Triumphs  of  Oriana  and  its  composers  —  Sir  Hugh  Evans 
and  his  comical  use  of  Marlowe's  Come  live  with  me  —  the 
catch  and  the  round  —  early  forms  of  the  Mother  Goose 
rimes  in  Shakspere's  Taming  of  the  Shrew — Pammelia  and 
Deuteromelia  —  nonsensical  words  to  many  of  the  catches  — 
musical  declamation — different   kinds  of  instrumental  music  — 


CONTENTS  vii 

part-songs  played  by  instruments — music  for  virginals  —  Queen 
Elizabeth' 5  Virginal  Book  —  Dowland's  Lachrimae  —  dances  of 
the  time:  tlie  pavan,  galliard,  etc.  —  illustrations  from  Twelfth 
Night  —  Sir  John  Davies's  T'he  Orchestra  —  Robert  Dowland 
and  his  "Frog  Galliard"  — mention  of  him  in  The  Passionate 
Pilgrim — his  lute-playing  and  music  —  lutes  and  viols  of  the 
period  — Queen  Elizabeth's  musicians  —  the  coranto,  the  paspy, 
and  the  morris-dance  —  musical  perception  in  Shakspere's 
eighth  sonnet  —  the  music  of  Shakspere's  life  —  music  de- 
pends on  opposition  —  in  the  moral  as  in  the  physical  world 
the  musical  tone  must  be  caused  by  two  forces,  the  one  acting 
athwart  the  other — the  fearful  antagonisms  and  wonderful  har- 
monies we  find  in  the  life  of  this  master  poet. 

PAGE 

Chapter  XV     The  Domestic  Life  of  Shakspere's  Time — I      .        6i 

The  treatment  of  domestic  life  to  centre  upon  Shakspere  himself 

—  Stratford,  the  Warwickshire  fields  and  lands,  and  Kenilworth 
cover  the  whole  of  English  life  —  Shakspere's  models  for  his 
characters  all  about  him — special  meaning  of  "  gentlemen"  in 
those  days  —  evidence  in  Midsummer  Nighf  s  Dream  that  Shak- 
spere had  visited  Kenilworth — striking  events  of  the  world's 
history  just  previous  to  and  during  Shakspere's  time  —  summary 
of  these  notable  events  that  make  up  the  "  outer  life  of  the  Re- 
naissance," from  the  invention  of  printing  in  1440  to  the  death 
of  Shakspere  in  1616. 

Chapter   XVI      The    Domestic  Life  of    Shakspere's  Time  —  II        73 

To  give  a  ground-plan  of  the  romance  of  Shakspere's  youth  for 
which  time  is  lacking  —  the  night  visit  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester's 
man  to  John  Shakspere,  the  glover — night  work  on  the  Earl's 
gloves — young  Shakspere  starts  out  to  deliver  the  parcel  at 
Long  Ichington  for  the  hunt  —  his  lunch  by  the  brookside  — 
falls  asleep  over  Wyatt's  "And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus?"  — 
Leicester's  plans  for  the  hunt  —  Queen  Elizabeth  rides  off  alone 
and  comes  upon  young  Shakspere  asleep — -she  rallies  Leicester 
upon  this  new  rival,  and  invites  the  boy  to  Kenilworth  —  Robert 
Laneham,  the  Queen's  usher,  and  his  letter  to  Master  Hum- 
phrey Martin  on  the  pageant  —  probably  the  original  of  Don 
Adriano  de  Armado  in  Love'' s  Labour's  Lost  —  passages  from 
this  letter  and  its  amusing  portraiture  of  the  writer  —  the  eat- 
ables and  drinkables  consumed — detailed  description  of  the 
Queen's  progress  and  reception  —  Gascoigne's  account  of  the 
Echo — Laneham's  picture  of  the  bear-baiting  —  the  fireworks 

—  Arion,  Triton,  and  the  dolphin  with  music  in  his  belly  — 
suggestions  of  Midsummer  Night'' s  Dream  in  all  this  —  Shakspere 
stops  at  the  Warwick  inn  on  his  way  home  to  see  a  play  —  the 


viii  CONTENTS 

inn-yards  in  which  plays  were  then  given — the  inn-yard  was 
the  original  of  the  pit  —  our  modern  theatres  constructed  on  the 
same  general  model  as  these  early  makeshifts  —  first  theatre 
erected  by  James  Burbagc  in  1576  —  John  Heywood's  inter- 
lude of  The  Four  P'' s  and  the  spirit  of  the  first  English  comedy 

—  nature  of  the  interlude  —  Puttenham's  sneer  at  "John  Hey- 
wood  the  Epigrammatist" — suggestion  in  The  Four  P'' s  of 
the  porter's  soliloquy  in  Macbeth  —  its  flippant  treatment  of 
great  matters  —  childishness  of  sixteenth-century  audience  — 
the  interlude  has  really  a  moral  purpose — Shakspere's  own 
more  reverential  nature — extracts  from  The  Four  P' s  —  ras- 
calitv  of  the  characters  and  low  plane  of  the  whole  thing — the 
contest  in  lying — childish  idea  of  hell  exhibited  —  the  Palmer 
wins  the  contest  by  declaring  he  never  saw  a  vvoman  out  of 
patience  —  good  doctrine  from  the  Pedler. 

PAGE 

Chapter   XVII      The  Domestic  Life  of  Shakspere's  Time — III      112 

Last  lecture  dealt  with   several   early  founts  of  English  humour 

—  now  to  consider  the  more  serious  side  of  sixteenth-cen- 
tury life  —  to  look  at  the  books,  sermons,  and  tragedies  common 
at  that  time  —  the  great  debate  about  this  time  over  plays  and 
play-going  —  severe  acts  of  Parliament  against  strolling  players 

—  Corporation  of  London  expels  players  from  the  city  —  unex- 
pected effect  of  this  measure —  the  first  English  theatre  building 
a  result — erection  of  "The  Theatre,"  "The  Curtain,"  and 
**  The  Blackfriars  "  just  outside  the  city  limits  —  furious  attack 
of  the  clergy  upon  the  stage  —  sermons  against  it  by  Wilcocks 
and  Stockwood  —  William  Prynne's  Histriomastix  and  Rankin's 
Mirrour  of  Monsters  —  Stephen  Gosson  and  his  Schoole  of  Abuse 

—  his  own  change  of  mind  —  his  inappropriate  dedication  to 
Sidney  —  probability  that  young  Shakspere  read  the  Schoole  of 
Abuse  —  extracts  from  the  book  —  its  attack  on  poetry,  music, 
and  the  drama  —  his  picture  of  theatre  manners  of  the  time  — 
his  combative  ending — a  sample  of  Gosson's  poetry  —  probable 
effect  of  Gosson's  tirade  on  young  Will  Shakspere  —  he  goes  to 
London  — goes  to  Paul's  Cross  to  hear  the  sermon  Sunday  morn- 
ing—  an  apropos  sermon  of  Hugh  Latimer's, though  he  dates  thirty 
years  earlier  —  Latimer's  sermons  before  Edward  VI — his 
strength  and  sweetness  of  character  —  extracts  from  his  sermons 

—  text  of  his  Good  Friday  sermon. 

Chapter  XVTII     The  Domestic  Life  of  Shakspere's  Time — IV      145 

Young  Shakspere  goes  to  the  play  Sunday  afternoon  —  the  reason 
for  afternoon  performances  —  takes  a  box  at  the  Blackfriars  — 
description  of  a  theatre  of  the  time — lack  of  scenery  —  method 
of  changing  the  locality  of  the  action  —  Ben  Jonson's  satires  on 


CONTENTS  ix 

contemporary  stage  devices  —  extract  from  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour  —  representative  plays  of  the  time — Kyd's  Spanish 
Tragedy — Robert  Greene  and  his  abuse  of  Shakspere  —  his 
Groatszvorth  of  Wit  and  its  famous  fling  at  his  rival  —  Chettle's 
apology  for  his  own  part  in  this  —  Greene's  influence  on  Shak- 
spere—  the  first  English  comedy  and  tragedy  —  Nicholas  Udall 
and  his  Ralph  Royster  Doyster  —  its  date — plot  of  the  play  and 
extracts — Anne  Hathavvay's  escapade  —  possibly  some  such  ad- 
venture the  original  of  the  many  female  masqueraders  in  men's 
clothes  in  Shakspere' s  plays  —  after  a  week  Shakspere  sees  a 
tragedy  —  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst — style  and  argu- 
ment of  his  Gorboduc,  the  first  English  tragedy  —  the  quaint 
"  Domme  Shew  "  that  preceded  it —  extracts  from  the  text. 

PAGE 

Chapter  XIX     The  Doctors  of  Shakspere's  Time  .  .177 

The  modern  doctor  and  modern  medicine  really  begin  in  these 
spacious  times  of  the  great  Elizabeth  —  importance  of  the  phy- 
sicians in  any  picture  of  modern  society — connection  between 
music  and  physic  in  the  sixteenth  century — Shakspere's  por- 
trayal of  the  ideal  doctor,  Cerimon,  in  Pericles — Cerimon  pos- 
sibly drawn  from  Shakspere's  son-in-law.  Dr.  John  Hall — the 
elder  John  Hall  and  his  Historical  Expostulation  Against  the 
Beastly  Abuses  both  of  Chirurgery  and  Physyke  in  Oure  Tyme  — 
Dr.  \Hal]'s  ideas  of  the  true  "chirurgeon" — absurdities  of  his 
Treatise  on  Anatomic  —  his  account  of  several  medical  impostors: 
Thomas  Luffkin,  "  Mayster  Wynkfelde,"  "  one  Nichols,"etc. 
—  Dr.  Thomas  Gale  and  his  tale  of  the  army  surgeons  —  the 
Doctor  in  Macbeth — Macbeth's  "throw  physic  to  the  dogs," 
and  its  parallel  in  Chaucer's  Knight'' s  Tale  —  connection  be- 
tween doctor  and  apothecary  —  the  Apothecary  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet  —  extracts  from  Heywood's  The  Four  P"* s — the  Poti- 
cary  in  this  interlude — his  curious  list  of  drugs — Shakspere's 
strange  silence  regarding  tobacco — belief  in  its  medicinal  virtue 
at  this  time  —  habit  of  smoking  on  the  stage  —  passages  illus- 
trating this  from  Arber's  Collections  —  Dr.  Thomas  Linacre, 
founder  of  the  College  of  Physicians  —  Italy  the  centre  of  med- 
icine in  1480  —  esteem  of  foreign  physicians  in  England  — 
lampoon  on  this  in  The  Marriage  of  Wit  and  Wisdom  —  length 
of  medical  course  at  this  time  —  Harvey  and  his  discovery  of 
the  circulation  of  the  blood  —  his  dignity  under  the  attacks  of 
his  enemies — Dr.  John  Harvey  and  his  touching  death  words. 

Chapter  XX     The    Metrical  Tests  —  I        ....      203 

Now  to  apply  the  theory  of  forms  to  the  understanding  of 
Shakspere's  character  and  verse  —  phenomena  of  tone-colour 
reduce  themselves  to  phenomena  of  rhythm  —  tone-colour,  in  fact. 


CONTENTS 

is  simplv  a  combination  of  different-rated  rhythms — the  prin- 
ciple of  Opposition  at  the  bottom  of  tone-colour  as  well  as  of 
tune  and  rhythm  —  Tom  Hood's  comical  plan  for  writing  blank 
verse  in  rime  —  illustrates  ludicrously  the  fact  that  the  ear 
does  not  like  several  identical  vowel-colours  in  succession  —  the 
ear,  on  the  contrary,  does  like  several  successive  consonant-colours; 
*'  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds  Admit  impedi- 
ments"—  these  facts  show  that  vowels  and  consonants  have 
precisely  opposite  tone-colour  functions  in  verse  —  the  vowels 
represent  accident,  the  chaos  element,  the  consonants  law,  the 
form  element  —  in  verse  as  in  life  these  great  contradictions 
prevail — a  glimpse  of  Shakspere's  perception  of  this  in  AW s 
Well  that  Ends  Well —  we  are  now  at  the  convergence  of  two 
distinct  trains  of  study:  the  laws  of  poetic  form,  and  form  in 
general,  particularly  that  kind  of  form  we  call  character  — 
direct  aim  of  the  Metrical  Tests  is  the  settling  of  dates  —  the 
importance  of  this  in  tracing  Shakspere's  growth  —  the  chro- 
nology to  be  substantiated — Shakspere's  three  periods:  of  Care- 
lessness, Bitterness,  Forgiveness — the  surprisingly  intimate 
revelations  suggested  by  the  mere  sequence  of  the  plays  —  dates 
of  these  three  phases  of  growth  —  all  the  comedies  come  in 
the  youthful  Bright  or  Carelessness  Period  —  in  the  only  tragedy, 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  it  is  the  young  love  and  not  the  tragic  death 
of  the  lovers  which  is  the  real  reason  for  being  —  the  historical 
plays  of  this  period  written  from  without,  not  from  within  —  they 
are  in  the  manner  of  a  young  man  who  has  not  experienced 
the  twist  and  grind  o'l  life  —  in  Henv^  VI  and  Richard  III  he 
is  really  writing  from  Marlowe  —  in  Richard  II  and  King  John 
we  find  mainly  playwright's  work —  Henry  IF  is  really  a 
comedy  with  FalstafFin  the  main  role  —  Henry  V  begins  to  show 
more  serious  thought  —  evidently  Shakspere  has  now  had  griefs 
more  stirring  than  the  financial  troubles  of  his  father  and  the 
death  of  his  son  Hamnet  —  after  the  brimming  comedy  of 
Twelfth  Night  come  suddenly  two  bloody  tragedies,  Julius 
Co'sar  and  Hamlet  —  next  appears  that  wretched  slough.  Mea- 
sure for  Measure,  followed  by  false-hearted  Cress ida — then 
come  the  enormous  single-passion  tragedies:  Othello,  Lear, 
Macbeth,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Coriolanus,  Timon —  evidences 
of  this  bitter  period  in  many  of  the  sonnets  from  LXVI  to 
CXII  —  emergence  from  this  bleakness  into  that  heavenly 
group  of  plays:  Pericles,  Cymbeline,  Tempest,  Winter'' s  Tale, 
and  Henry  VIII —  Prospero  in  the  epilogue  to  The  Tempest 
seems  to  stand  for  Shakspere  himself —  this  calm  of  assured  victory 
also  evident  in  the  sonnets  —  apparent  significance  of  the  ini- 
tialled pane  of  glass  preserved  at  Stratford  —  the  research  to  prove 
that  this  moral  advance  was  accompanied  by  a  corresponding 
advance  in  poetic  technic — the  five  MetricalTests —  Malone's 
suggestion  of  the  rime  test  —  Rev.  F.  G.  Fleay  adds  much  ex- 


CONTENTS  xi 

actness  to  Malone's  rest  by  making  an  actual  table  of  the  rimes 
in  different  plays —  his  claim  that  the  rime  test  is  a  final  proof 
of  chronology  too  sweeping — there  seems  beyond  question  to 
be  a  gradual  decrease  of  rime  as  Shakspere  grew  older  —  in 
short,  the  rime  test  is  valuable  only  as  cumulative  evidence  — 
Englishmen  since  before  Chaucer's  time  have  embodied  their 
deepest  feelings  in  rime  —  Surrey  wrote  his  Virgil  translation 
without  rime — noisy  debate  fifty  years  later  among  Harvey, 
Nash,  Greene,  Puttenham,  Webbe,  Gascoigne,  Spenser,  and 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  regarding  use  of  rime  —  Shakspere  undoubtedly 
reached  the  plane  of  artistic  technic  where  he  saw  that  rime 
was  appropriate  for  some  matters  and  not  for  others,  and  used 
it  accordingly  —  nature  of  the  end-stopped  line  —  example 
from  Midsummer  Night' s  Dream  —  contrasting  run-on  lines  from 
The  Tempest  —  stifi^iess  produced  by  exclusive  use  of  end- 
stopped  lines  illustrated  perfectly  in  Pope  —  freedom  and  vari- 
ety afforded  by  avoiding  this  pause  at  end  of  each  line  —  Shak- 
spere's  greater  freedom  in  use  of  run-on  lines  in  the  later  plays 
—  this  test  generally  confirms  the  chronology  suggested  by 
rime  test  and  internal  evidences  —  the  greater  breadth  of  thought 
suggested  by  the  more  majestic  sweep  of  this  kind  of  verse  — 
rhythmic  functions  of  both  rime  and  end-stopped  lines  those 
of  regularity  or  form  —  function  of  the  run-on  line  exactly  an- 
tagonistic to  this — the  art  of  verse  demands  form  but  no  monot- 
ony, chaos  but  no  lawlessness — story  in  Beda  of  the  monk's 
dream  o^  hell — the  artist  similarly  placed  between  the  flame 
wall  of  chaos  and  the  ice  wall  of  form — Sonnet  CXIX 
hints  at  the  conversion  of  the  hell  of  antagonism  into  the  heaven 
of  art. 


PAGE 


Chapter   XXI     The   Metrical  Tests  —  II   .  .  .  .231 

The  three  remaining  metrical  tests  —  weak-ending  lines  in  The 
Tempest — division  into  weak  and  light  endings  not  neces- 
sary here  —  weak-ending  is  really  a  sort  of  run-on  line  —  reason 
for  treating  it  separately  is  that  Shakspere's  use  of  it  begins  ab- 
ruptly, at  Macbeth  —  Professor  Ingram's  conclusions  regarding 
this  test  —  Shakspere  evidently  quite  changed  his  mind  regarding 
this  verse  form  about  Macbeth  or  a  little  earlier  —  nature  of 
the  double-ending  line  illustrated  musically  —  like  the  other  later 
developments  just  studied,  this  is  a  variation  of  the  normal  form 

—  this  double-ending  test  confirms  all  the  others  —  though 
Shakspere's  use  of  it  increased  noticeably  in  the  later  plays,  his 
enormous  self-control  is  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  it  never  ran 
away  with  him,  as  it  did  with  some  of  his  contemporaries  —  ex- 
ample of  this  in  John  Fletcher's  work —  interesting  application 
of  this  in  determining  authorship  of  special  parts  of  Henry  VIII 

—  Emerson's  acute  surmises  on  this  point  and  the  conjectures  of 


xil  CONTENTS 

others  authoritatively  checked  by  the  double-ending  test  —  same 
process  in  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen — the  rhythmic  accent  test  — 
three  wholly  different  kinds  of  accent  :  the  pronunciation  accent, 
the  logical  accent,  and  the  rhythmic  accent  —  the  last  marks  off 
bars,  or  equal  groups  of  sounds,  in  both  poetry  and  music — as 
in  music  so  in  verse  the  position  of  this  accent  may  be  changed 
for  the  sake  of  variety  —  effect  of  this  change  is  to  vary  the  nor- 
mal rhythmic  pattern  —  it  is  therefore,  like  the  double-ending,  a 
device  against  monotony — confusion  among  scholars  regarding 
these  accents  — as  w^e  should  expect,  Shakspere  in  his  later  plays 
made  freer  use  of  this  accent  variation  —  no  exact  reductions  to 
numbers  in  this  case,  as  the  test  is  one  formulated  by  the  writer, 
but  the  general  change  is  very  apparent  —  cumulative  effect  of 
all  this  evidence  obtained  from  such  different  sources  —  metrical 
tests  invaluable  in  checking  conclusions  as  to  Shakspere's  artistic 
growth  —  all  the  five  tests  unite  in  showing  a  tendency  towards 
freedom,  relief  from  monotony,  and  individuality  —  that  is, 
the  poet's  advance  is  clearlv  a  more  artistic  balancing  of  the  op- 
positions which  constitute  verse  —  we  can  now  see  a  poem  as 
form  in  art,  a  generalisation  as  form  in  science,  a  balanced  char- 
acter as  form  in  morals  —  opposition  underlies  all  the  phases  of 
this  balance  —  a  table  of  oppositions  or  balances  in  Shakspere's 
artistic  and  moral  development  —  in  next  lectures  to  prove  by 
contrasting  certain  typical  plays  that  the  poet's  advance  in  art 
and  morals  is  one  and  the  same  growth  —  man's  three  lines  of 
outlook  are  to  God,  man,  and  nature — admirable  adaptation 
of  the  plays  selected  to  the  illustration  of  all  these  points  in 
Shakspere's  work. 

Chapter  XXII   Man's  Relations  to  the  Supernatural  as  shown     page 
IN  Midsummer  Night'' s  Dream,  Hamlet,  and  The  Tempest       .      252 

As  already  found,  the  tunes,  rhythms,  and  colours  of  verse  are  all 
due  to  diverse  vibrations  or  oppositions  of  forces  —  Shakspere's 
progress  as  a  verse  artist  is  towards  a  more  artistic  management  of 
oppositions  of  the  esthetic  demands  of  the  ear — now  to  show 
through  the  three  plays  above  that  in  the  same  way  he  advanced  in 
the  management  of  those  moral  oppositions  which  make  up  life 
—  evidence  of  his  growth  also  in  the  opposition  of  character  to 
character,  figure  against  figure,  event  against  event  in  the  dramas  — 
his  freedom  and  emancipation  from  stiffness  in  these  matters  of 
the  playwright's  art  shown  by  contrasting  the  formality  of  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  and  the  other  early  plays  with  the 
more  mature  dramas  —  this  again  a  tendency  to  variety — Midsum- 
mer Night'' s  Dream  typical  of  the  youthful  Bright  Period,  as 
Hamlet  is  of  the  Dark  Real  Period,  and  The  Tempest  of  the  Ideal 
Forgiveness  Period  —  date  of  the  Dream  fixed  approximately  by 
Francis  Meres's  fVits  Treasury — great  weight  of  evidence  places 


CONTENTS  xiii 

it  at  1595  or  earlier  —  Ham/ei  ph'mly  falls  about  1602,  well  into 
the  Dark  Period  —  7'be  Tempest  is  placed  by  most  scholars  in 
16 10  or  161  I  — exact  years  do  not  matter  at  all,  for  over- 
whelming evidence  of  every  sort  has  fixed  the  succession  in  time 
of  these  three  plays  —  they  surely  represent  three  distinct  epochs 
in  Shakspere's  life  —  every  man's  life  inexorably  contains  these 
three  epochs:  the  Dream,  the  Real,  the  Ideal  —  Shakspere's  won- 
derful emergence  from  the  paralysis  of  the  Real  in  Hamlet  to  the 
Ideal  in  The  Tempest  —  he  has  learned  to  balance  all  the  oppo- 
sitions —  in  the  Midsummer  Ntght' s  Dream  man  is  the  sport  of 
Nature — *' Nature  "  there  vaguely  means  the  supernatural  — 
this  is  just  the  conception  o^i  the  dreaming  youth  —  chance 
rules  the  world  in  such  a  conception  —  no  faith  or  belief  in  the 
Dream,  but  only  imagination  —  life  questions  the  dreaming  poet, 
and  the  first  result  is  Hamlet,  who  answers  by  asking  another 
question  —  this  lack  of  belief,  combined  with  the  belief  of  belief, 
a  striking  but  neglected  characteristic  of  Hamlet  —  first  in  the 
soliloquy  he  knows  nothing  of  the  after-death  —  then  when 
hesitating  to  kill  the  praying  king  he  seems  to  have  the  most  set- 
tled convictions  as  to  what  will  come  after  death  —  his  "undis- 
covered country  "  directly  contradicts  the  whole  vital  episode  of 
the  Ghost  —  our  age  characteristically  the  "Hamlet  age" — 
story  of  the  Indian  who  tried  to  kill  his  friend  as  illustrating 
perfect  belief — in  Hamlet  mz.n's  attitude  toward  the  supernatural 
is  a  dqubt  underlying  a  belief  that  he  believes  —  when  we  reach 
The  Tempest,  in  16 10,  we  find  a  Providence  indeed  —  and  in- 
stead of  the  vengeful  Ghost  o^ Hamlet  the  Providence  now  comes 
to  compass  forgiveness  and  reconciliation  —  Shakspere  has  found 
moral  exaltation  to  be  the  secret  of  managing  life's  oppositions  — 
so  it  runs:  first,  man  the  sport  of  chance;  second,  doubting  man 
urged  to  revenge,  but  even  this  uncertain;  third,  "repentance, 
forgiveness,  and  Providence  rise  like  stars  out  of  the  dark  oi Ham- 
let''''—  the  supernatural  has  changed  from  Oberon  to  a  ghost,  to 
a  man  in  God's  image  controlling  the  pucks  and  ghosts  — 
The  Tempest  fairy-tale,  Ariel  against  Puck,  is  but  an  ideal 
reconstruction  of  the  youthful  dream  —  Bulwer's  essay  on 
the  different  appearances  of  things  accompanying  changes  in 
our  powers  of  sight  —  we  see  the  film  or  dreamy  covering  of 
things  as  a  beautiful  face  —  the  repulsiveness  of  being  able  to  see 
the  muscles,  nerves,  veins,  and  bones:  the  real  just  below  the 
surface —  analogy  of  this  to  the  Hamlet  period,  where  •*  the  for- 
bidding network  of  death  and  murder  and  revenge  and  sin  and 
suffering  starts  out  from  underneath  the  smooth  exterior  of  life  "  — 
the  infinite  beauty  to  which  this  would  change  if  we  could  see 
the  purpose  and  reason  and  function  of  each  thing  along  with  the 
thing  itself —  the  perfect  analogy  of  all  this  to  Shakspere  —  the 
significance  of  the  epilogues  to  these  plays  —  at  the  end  of  the 
Dream  we  have  nothing;  a  fit  ending;  the  epilogue  to  Hamlet  is 


xiv  CONTENTS 

really  a  sullen  peal  of  guns,  like  inarticulate  cries  from  beyond 
the  grave;  while  The  Tempest  closes  with  a  passionate  human 
appeal  from  the  master  to  his  fellow-men. 

Chapter    XXIII      Man's     Relations    to     Man     as     Shown     in      page 
Midsummer  Night' s  Dream,  Hamlet,  and   The   Tempest         .      276 

Summary  of  previous  lecture  —  embarrassment  of  riches  in 
illustrating  Shakspere's  widening  view  of  man's  relation  to  his 
fellow-man  —  study  here  to  be  confined  to  the  three  plays- 
vvithin-plays,  or  anti-masques,  that  occur  in  these  dramas: 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  The  Mouse-trap  (as  Hamlet  calls  the 
terrible  murder  scene  of  the  players),  and  that  masque  of 
the  beneficent  gods,  Juno,  Ceres,  Iris,  etc.,  arrayed  by  Pros- 
pcro  before  his  young  lovers —  in  the  first  Shakspere  is  plainly 
laughing  at  somebody;  its  motive  is  Ridicule  —  the  motive  of  the 
second  is  plainly  Revenge — and  the  third  begins  and  con- 
tinues and  ends  in  Blessing  —  evidence  in  Harvey's  letters  and 
in  a  work  of  Greene's  that  Shakspere  in  the  Dream  was  satiris- 
ing Greene — the  controversy  between  Greene  and  Shakspere 
and  Greene  and  Harvey  —  Shakspere  never  replied  to  his  enemy's 
abuse  —  Harvey  answers  on  his  own  and  Shakspere's  account  — 
the  flood  of  pamphlets  augmented  after  Greene's  death  by  four 
from  Harvey  —  Shakspere  doubtless  knew  these  pamphlets  well 
—  various  catchwords  in  these  traceable  through  the  Dream: 
Greene's  beggary,  a  dissertation  on  asses,  and  a  mention  ot 
Greene's  Arcadia,  wherein  occurs  a  passage  singularly  like 
Pyramus's  apostrophe  to  Thisbe — it  seems  evident  from  these 
and  allied  clues  that  Shakspere  in  the  Dream  was  merrily  paying 
off  Greene  for  the  Groatsworth  of  Wit —  from  this  mild  revenge 
of  ridicule  we  pass  to  the  desperate  horror  of  the  revenge  upon 
which  the  Hamlet  anti-masque  is  founded — and  from  this  we 
advance  to  the  "large  blue  heaven  of  moral  width  and  delight" 
in  The  Tempest  anti-masque  —  here  Prospero  calls  down  the 
gods  to  shower  blessings  on  his  beloved  —  other  plays  show  this 
mature  moral  exaltation  as  well  as  The  Tempest  —  in  Pericles, 
for  instance,  the  picture  of  Cerimon  is  a  notable  illustration  — 
extracts  from  Pericles  covering  the  casting  overboard  and  revival 
of  Thaisa  —  in  connection  with  the  use  of  music  as  physic, 
Herrick's  poem  "To  Music,  to  Becalm  his  Fever." 


Chapter  XXIV  Man's  Relations  to  Nature  as  Shown  in 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  Hamlet,  and  The  Tempest, 
AND   Conclusion  ....... 

Embarrassment  of  riches  as  great  here  as  in  the  last  lecture  —  to 
choose  again  a  special  phase  for  comparison  in  the  plays  —  simi- 
larity of  the  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  hunt  to  the  hunt  in  Chaucer's 


297 


CONTENTS  XV 

Knight's  Tale  —  extracts  from  the  Knight's  Tale — Shakspere 
makes  the  forest  alive  —  the  fairy  scenes  of  Midsummer  Night" s 
Dream  —  the  King  and  Queen  hunt  with  their  hounds  "bred  out 
of  the  Spartan  kind,"  amid  this  world  of  busy  life,  of  cowslips 
and  dew  and  frolic  and  love — as  Nature  was  riotous  with  life  in 

the  Dream,  so  is  she  riotous  with  death  in  the  Real  in  Hamlet 

parallels  to  the  Hamlet  nature  teaching  in  2''he  Origin  of  Species 
and  in  Chaucer  —  triumphant  rise  of  Shakspere  in  The  Tempest 
to  a  balanced  view  of  Nature  as  both  life  and  death  —  the  hunt 
from  The  Tempest — the  poet's  increase  of  sympathy  with  Na- 
ture and  all  lower  creatures  finely  shown  in  these  two  hunts — one 
is  a  barbarian  enmity  against  brute  beasts,  the  other  aims  at  the 
reformation  ot  a  fellow-creature  —  our  own  time  has  advanced 
even  beyond  Shakspere  in  his  matter  of  Nature  love  —  this  evi- 
denced by  the  rise  of  physical  science,  modern  Nature  poetry,  and 
modern  landscape-painting  —  summing  up  of  the  last  five  lectures 
—  the  moral  problem  of  life  just  like  the  artistic  problem  —  de- 
tailed summary  of  the  whole  course  of  lectures — specific  analysis 
of  lines  from  the  Dream  and  The  Tempest  to  show  the  technical 
superiority  of  the  latter  —  the  same  genius  which  could  so  har- 
moniously adjust  the  esthetic  antagonisms  of  verse  will  with  tem- 
perance and  self-control  arrange  life's  moral  antagonisms  —  there 
is  a  point  of  technic  beyond  which  the  merely  clever  artist  can 
never  reach  —  Shakspere,  in  the  music  of  his  verse,  in  the  height 
of  his  moral  ideals,  in  the  temperance  and  control  of  his  life,  is 
"a  whole  heaven  above"  Greene,  Marlowe,  Nash,  and  his 
other  contemporaries  — in  short,  even  in  technic  only  moral  great- 
ness can  reach  beyond  a  certain  point  —  man  himself  is  like  one 
of  these  tone-colours,  tunes,  or  rhythmic  elements  —  man's  relation 
to  his  fellows  and  to  the  main  form  of  life  illustrated  by  the  gnat 
swarm  —  ludicrous  attempts  in  sixteenth  century  to  make  rhythm 
visible  to  the  eye  by  typography  —  Poe's  vast  simile  of  "  the 
beating  of  the  Heart  of  God"  — it  is  the  poet  who  must  gaze 
on  the  gnats  from  the  distance  of  the  ideal  to  find  out  for  man  the 
figure  —  conclusion. 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Chandos  Portrait  of  Shakspere Fr-ontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

King  David,  surrounded  by  Musicians  and  a  Juggler  ...        4 
From  a  tenth-century  MS. 

A  Fourteenth-century  Representation  of  Violin-playing    .      .        6 

A  Seventeenth-century  Concert 8 

From  the  painting  by  Dominiquin 

Musical  Instruments  of  Shakspere's  Time 10 

An  Ecclesiastical  Concert 12 

From  the  paintitig  by  Giorgione 

A  Lute  Accompaniment  of  Shakspere's  Time 14 

Engraved  by  Andouinfrom  the  painting  by  Netscher pere 

A  Seventeenth-century  Mandolin-player 20 

Engraved  by  Aiidouin  from  the  painting  by  Gerard  Terburg 

Pope  Gregory  the  Great,  w^ith  his  Father  and  Mother      .     .      28 

From  an  old  engraving 

St.  Ambrose 30 

From  an  engraving  in  '^Vies  des  Ho>nmes  Illustres'" 

Facsimile  of  the  "  Cuckoo  Song  " 34 

From  the  original  MS.  in  the  British  Museum 

Clement  Marot 40 

From  an  old  engraving 

Theodore  Beza « 4^ 

Title-page  of  Dowland's  "  First  Booke  of  Songes  "...     52 

Sir  John  Davies 54 

xvii 


xviii  LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING     PAGE 

Anne  Hathaway's  Cottage 62 

The  Church  at  Stratford-on-Avon 64 

Charlecote 66 

Drawn  and  engraved  by  T.  Radclyffe 

Shakspere's  House  at  Stratford 74 

Queen  Elizabeth 80 

From  the  picture  formerly  in  the  royal  collection  at  St.  James  Palace 

The  Earl  of  Leicester 82 

A  Royal  Progress  of  Queen  Elizabeth 88 

From  a  painting 

Gate-house,  Kenilworth  Castle 90 

From  an  engraving 

George  Gascoigne 94 

Artificial   Lake  and   Festivities  in   Honour  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's Visit 96 

Old  Inn  showing  Courtyard  in  which  Plays  were  Performed      98 

John  Hey  wood lOO 

A  Potecary  and  a  Pardoner 102 

Stage  Directions  for  a  Morality 104 

From  the  "  Coventry  Mysteries" 

A  View  of  the  Pit's  Mouth 106 

From  the  "  Coventry  Mysteries  " 

The  Idea  of  Hell  found  in  the  Mystery  Plays 108 

Fro}n  the  "  Coventry  Mysteries  " 

The  Locked  Door iio 

From  an  engraving  in  the  "  Coventry  Alysteries  " 

A  Soul  in  Torment 112 

From  the  "  Coventry  Mysteries" 

Mummers  and  Strolling  Players  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  England    114 
William  Prvnne 116 

The  Swan  Theatre  ini6i4 118 

The  most  westerly  of  the  playhouses  on  the  Bankside 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS  xix 

FACING    PAGE 

Morris-dancers I20 

The  Globe  and  the  Bear  Garden 122 

Preaching  before  the  King  at  Paul's  Cross  in  1620      .      .      .126 

From  a  rare  engraving 

Bishop  Latimer 132 

Richard  Tarleton,  an  Actor  in  Shakspere's  Plays    .      .      .      .144 

The  Stage  in  the  Red  Bull  Playhouse 146 

Title-page  of  Ben  Jonson's  "Tragedies  and  Comedies"  .      .    148 

Sackville 166 

A  Tragedy  of  the  Period  :  Marlowe's  "  Edward  II  "  .      .      .168 

Dr.  Thomas  Linacre 198 

From  an  engraving  by  H.  Cook 

William  Harvey,  and  Chart  of  Circulation  of  the  Blood  ,      .  200 

Title-page  of  First  Folio 2iO 

John  Fletcher 236 

First  pkge  of  Original  Edition  of  "  Hamlet  " 264 

The  Only  Known  Portrait  of  Thomas  Nash 282 

Puck 302 

From  an  engraving  by  Charles  Marr  of  the  picture  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds 


SHAKSPERE 
AND  HIS  FORERUNNERS 





CHAPTER   XIII 


THE    MUSIC  OF   SHAKSPERE'S  TIME— I 


HAVE  lately  read  a  story  by  Mr. 
Tyndall  to  the  effect  that  upon  a  cer- 
tain occasion  he  invited  Mr.  Faraday 
into  his  laboratory  to  witness  an  ex- 
periment. Just  as  he  was  about  to 
begin,  Mr.  Faraday  said,  "  Stop :  tell 
me  what  I  am  to  look  for."  Taking 
my  cue  from  a  mind  so  great  and  so 
trained  as  Faraday's,  you  will  not  think  it  a  reflection  upon 
your  intelligence  if  in  the  outset  of  my  lecture  I  tell  you 
what  you  are  to  look  for.  I  wish  that,  besides  any  en- 
tertainment you  might  find  in  it,  you  may  carry  away 
with  you  some  definite  idea  of  the  facts  which  I  am  to 
bring  before  you  ;  and  judging  from  my  own  needs  in 
similar  cases,  I  think  that  a  brief  synopsis  of  the  lecture 
may  give  you  serviceable  grouping-points  for  the  somewhat 
miscellaneous  mass  of  circumstances  which  I  must  array. 
I  propose,  then,  first  to  show  the  great  love  which 
Englishmen  had  for  music  in  Shakspere's  time,  and  the 
extraordinary  cultivation  of  it  among  all  classes  :  for  which 

3 


4     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

purpose  I  shall  give  many  citations  from  Shakspere  and 
contemporary  writers.  Second,  I  will  endeavour  to  show, 
hy  quotations  from  Shakspere,  that  music  was  his  best- 
beloved  art,  and  that  he  had  a  wonderful  insight  into  its 
deeper  mysteries.  Third,  I  will  discuss  the  various  kinds 
of  music  which  Shakspere  was  accustomed  to  hear,  vocal 
and  instrumental,  and  shall  endeavour  to  supply  you  with 
the  foundation  for  an  instructive  contrast  between  the 
music  of  Shakspere's  time  and  that  of  our  own. 

There  is  a  wide-spread  notion  that  the  native  soil  of 
music  is  in  Italy  and  Germany,  that  the  art  is  an  alien  one 
in  England  and  America,  and  that  such  inclination  as  we 
English-speaking  people  have  towards  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  an  "acquired  taste."  It  is  perfectly  true  that  in  origi- 
nating music  —  in  what  is  called  musical  composition  —  we 
have  not  ever  played  a  supreme  part ;  but  the  popular  love 
for  music  among  English-speaking  peoples  has  certainly 
been  much  underestimated.  As  to  the  popular  attitude 
towards  musical  cultivation  in  the  present  day,  you  have 
but  to  cast  a  glance  about  you  in  order  to  see  how  many 
striking  signs  exist  that  even  here  in  the  United  States 
there  is  a  great  under-passion  for  music  already  beginning 
to  develope  itself,  although  but  a  few  years  have  passed 
since  we  were  all  fighting  starvation,  winter,  and  the  savage 
too  desperately  to  sing,  save  it  might  be  a  snatch  betwixt 
two  strokes  of  the  axe  or  two  shots  of  the  rifle.  Consider 
the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  churches  in  our  land, 
each  with  its  organ  and  its  choir  ;  consider  the  multitudes 
of  musical  concerts  to  which  our  people  flock  night  after 
night  in  theatre,  in  concert-room,  in  church  chapel,  in  vil- 
lage hall ;  consider  the  underlying  sentiment  which  has 
brought  about  that  scarcely  any  home  in  the  United  States  is 
considered  even  furnished  which  has  not  a  piano  in  the  par- 
lour, and  that  scarcely  any  young  woman's  schooling  does 
not  embrace  "taking  lessons"  either  in  playing  or  in  singing. 


King  David,  surrounded  by  Musicians  and  a  juggler 
Fiom  a  tenth-ccntiiry  MS. 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S    TIME     5 

As  we  now  go  back  to  study  the  state  of  music  in 
Shakspere's  time,  we  find  that  the  English  people  of  the 
sixteenth  century  were  enthusiastic  lovers  of  the  art. 
There  were  professorships  of  music  in  the  universities,  and 
multitudes  of  teachers  of  it  among  the  people.  The 
monarch,  the  lord,  the  gentleman,  the  merchant,  the 
artisan,  the  rustic  clown,  the  blind  beggar,  all  ranks 
and  conditions  of  society,  from  highest  to  lowest,  cul- 
tivated the  practice  of  singing,  or  of  playing  upon  some 
of  the  numerous  instruments  of  the  time.  Early  in 
the  century  Henry  VIII  evinced  his  own  personal  love 
for  music,  and  thus  established  it  as  the  fashion  with 
his  royal  countenance,  Hollingshead  in  his  chronicles 
records  that  Henry  VIII  "exercised  himself  daylie  in 
shooting,  singing,  dancing,  wrestling,  casting  of  the  barre, 
plaieing  at  the  recorders,  flute,  virginals,  in  setting  of  songes 
and  making  of  ballades.''  You  can  find  in  the  Peabody 
Library  some  part-songs  of  King  Henry  VIII's  composi- 
tion which  are  not  bad  —  for  a  king.  After  Henry  VIII, 
Queen  Elizabeth  preserved  a  genuine  delight  in  music, 
and  with  her  queenly  favour  added  such  incentives  to  the 
popular  inclination  that  the  art  flourished  in  her  reign  with 
the  greatest  vigour.  The  Queen  herself  was  a  good  per- 
former on  the  lute  and  the  virginals.  It  is  thought  that  a 
compliment  to  her  playing  is  intended  in  a  passage  in  Act 

III,  Scene  I  of  the  first  part  of  Shakspere's  King  Henry 

IV.  Mortimer,  you  remember,  has  married  a  beautiful 
Welsh  lady  who  can  speak  no  English,  while  he  can  speak 
no  Welsh  ;  yet  he  is  complimenting  the  dainty  words 
which  fall  from  her  lips,  and  declares  : 

I  will  never  be  a  truant,  love, 

Till  I  have  learned  thy  language  :   for  thy  tongue 

Makes  Welsh  as  sweet  as  ditties  highly  penned. 

Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer's  bower. 

With  ravishing  division,  to  her  lute. 


6     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

The  ditties  highly  penned  is  a  graceful  allusion,  likely,  to 
Qiieen  Elizabeth's  poems,  some  of  which  are,  like  Henry 
VII  I's  m.usic,  not  bad  for  a  queen.  The  word  division 
here  is  a  technical  term  of  the  musical  science  of  that  time. 
We  shall  presently  see  that  their  music  was  largely  made 
up  of  old  immemorial  tunes,  redacted  and  made  new  by 
all  sorts  of  ingenious  variations.  These  variations  were 
called,  in  general,  "  division "  ;  instead  of  saying  "  an 
air  with  variations,"  as  we  do,  they  said  "  an  air  with 
division." 
/  Coming  down  from  these  royal  music-lovers,  the  as- 
sertion just  now  made  —  that  not  only  the  monarch,  but 
all  lower  ranks  of  society,  the  nobleman,  the  private  gen- 
tleman, the  merchant,  the  artisan,  the  clown,  and  the 
beggar,  assiduously  cultivated  music  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
time  —  is  not  mere  rhetoric,  but  is  literally  true.  If  I  had 
time,  it  would  be  easy  to  cite  you  quotation  after  quotation 
from  contemporary  writers  implying  the  common  pursuit 
and  practice  of  music,  at  this  time,  by  all  classes  of  people. 
I  have  just  remarked  that  Henry  VIII  and  Queen  Eliza- 
beth were  good  musicians.  To  leap  at  once  to  the  other 
extreme  of  society,  I  find  in  Shakspere's  Winter  s  "Tale  that 
he  could  speak,  without  danger  of  hissing  from  the  audi- 
ence, of  the  rustic  sheep-shearers  as  being  able  to  sing 
part-songs.  In  Scene  II  of  Act  IV,  as  the  cunning  Autol- 
ycus  strolls  down  the  road  singing. 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, 
With  heigh  !   the  doxy  over  the  dale, 

presently  comes  on  a  clown,  who  begins  to  say  over  to 
himself  the  numerous  sweets  and  spices  which  his  sister 
has  sent  him  to  buy  against  a  pudding  for  the  sheep- 
shearing  feast.  "Three  pound  of  sugar;  five  pound  of 
currants  ;  rice  —  what  will  this  sister  of  mine  do  with  rice? 


A  Fourteenth-century  Representation  of  Violin-playing 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     7 

But  my  father  hath  made  her  mistress  of  the  feast,  and  she 
lays  it  on.  She  hath  made  me  four  and  twenty  nosegays 
for  the  shearers,  three-man  song-men  ally  and  very  good 
ones ;  but  they  are  most  of  them  means  and  bases"  Here, 
you  see,  twenty-four  shepherds  are  represented  as  all 
three-man  song-men,  that  is,  as  able  to  sing  their  parts  in 
those  concerted  songs  for  three  men  which  form  such  a 
curious  feature  in  the  music  of  this  time.  The  "  means 
and  bases  "  were  names  of  the  two  parts  below  the  first 
or  treble  in  a  three-part  song,  the  part  next  below  the 
treble  being  the  mean,  and  the  lowest  the  base.  Again, 
I  find  Shakspere  giving  intimation  of  the  universality 
of  the  part-song  in  Scene  III  of  Act  II  of  Twelfth  . 
Night.  The  jolly  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew  are  carousing  "^ 
in  a  room  in  Olivia's  house.  Presently  the  fool  comes  in 
and  sings  them  a  love-song,  and  then  Sir  Toby  proposes  a 
three-man  song  —  as  the  clown  called  it  —  or  catch.  The 
catch,  you  all  probably  understand,  was  a  part-song  in 
which  one  begins  a  melody,  the  next  waits  a  couple  of 
bars  and  then  begins  to  sing  the  same  melody,  the  third 
waits  still  a  couple  of  bars  and  then  he  also  begins  the 
same  melody.  This  is  the  general  type  of  a  sort  of  music 
very  popular  in  those  days.  The  particular  species  called 
a  "  catch  "  was  always  a  jolly  song,  and  often  the  words  of 
the  second  part  were  a  play  upon  the  words  of  the  first ; 
as,  for  example,  the  first  voice  would  start  out  singing  Ah^ 
how  Sophia^  and  presently  the  second  voice  would  begin 
singing  the  same  melody  to  words  "  catching  "  up  the  first, 
as  A  house  afire.  Sometimes  the  catch  had  words 
which  really  were  chosen  to  catch  the  tongue  by  their 
difSculty  of  pronouncing  them  ;  as,  for  instance,  a  catch 
which  was  sung  in  Shakspere's  time  called  "  Three  blue 
beans  in  a  blue  bladder,  Rattle,  bladder,  rattle."  The 
general   nature  of  the  catch  may  be  inferred  from  what 


8     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

follows  in  Twelfth  Night.  After  the  fool's  love-song,  Sir 
Toby  roars  out : 

But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance,  indeed  ?      Shall  we  rouse 
^     the   night-owl   in   a  catch  that  will   draw  three  souls  out  of  one 
weaver  ? 

Sir  And.     An  you  love  me,  let's  do  't :   I  am  dog  at  a  catch, 

{^They  sing  a  catch. ^ 

And  the  nature  of  their  music  may  be  gathered  from  what 
Maria  and  Malvolio  presently  say. 

Enter  Maria. 

Maria.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here  !  If  my  bdy 
have  not  called  up  her  steward  Malvolio  and  bid  him  turn  you 
out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 

Sir  Toby.  My  lady's  a  Cataian,  we  are  politicians,  Malvolio's 
a  Peg-a-Ramsey,  and  Three  merry  men  be  we.  Am  not  I  con- 
sanguineous ?  am  I  not  of  her  blood  ?  Tilly vally.  Lady  !  There 
dwelt  a  tnan  in  Babylon^  l^dy.,  lady  I 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Alal.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are  you  ?  Have 
you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to  gabble  like  tinkers  at 
this  time  of  night  ?  Do  ye  make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's  house, 
that  ye  squeak  out  your  cosief's  [cobbler's]  catches  without  any 
mitigation  or  remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there  no  respect  of  place, 
persons,  or  time  in  you  ? 

Sir  Toby.      We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches.      Snick  up  ! 

Here  we  find  the  two  knights,  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew, 
and  a  clown,  singing  a  three-part  song  ;  while  Malvolio's 
rebuke  that  they  are  gabbling  like  tinkers  and  squeaking  out 
cosier  s  (cobbler's)  catches  shows,  as  indeed  we  gather  from 
other  evidence,  that  tinkers  and  cobblers  were  in  the  habit 
of  singing   part-songs.      To   go    to    the    other   system    in 


u 


Cn 


2      ■^ 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     9 

society,  Peacham,  in  his  Compleat  Gentleman^  requires  that 
personage  to  be  able  "  to  sing  his  part  sure,  and  at  first 
sights  and  withal  to  play  the  same  on  a  viol  or  lute." 

The  commonness  of  playing  the  viol  is  shown  by  the 
circumstance  that  it  was  the  custom  in  Shakspere's  time 
for  a  gentleman  to  keep  a  base  viol  hanging  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, upon  which  a  waiting  visitor  could  amuse  him- 
self Ben  Jonson  refers  to  this  when  one  of  his  characters, 
in  heartening  up  a  timid  suitor  to  his  work,  says:  "In 
making  love  to  her,  never  fear  to  be  out  for  ...  a  base- 
viol  shall  hang  o'  the  wall,  of  purpose,  shall  put  you  in 
presently."  If  we  go  from  the  gentleman's  parlour  to  the 
barber-shop  of  the  sixteenth  century,  we  find  still  more 
unmistakable  evidences  of  the  popularity  of  music.  People 
would  seem  to  have  had  more  time  in  those  days  than 
now,  and  do  not  appear  to  have  minded  waiting  as  much 
as  do  brisker  moderns ;  and  so  the  barber  provided  means 
to  amu^se  those  who  were  waiting  their  turn.  For  this 
purpose  he  had  the  virginals  in  one  corner  —  the  virginals 
being  a  stringed  instrument,  the  precursor  of  our  piano,  in 
which,  by  pressing  keys  like  our  piano-keys,  the  strings 
were  struck,  not  by  a  hammer  as  in  our  piano,  but  by  a 
quill  or  an  elastic  piece  of  wood,  leather,  or  metal.  A 
virginal  of  Elizabeth's  time  is  still  preserved  in  the  South 
Kensington  Museum  in  England.  But  besides  the  vir- 
ginals you  would  find  in  the  barber-shop  a  cittern — an  in- 
strument like  our  guitar  in  shape,  with  four  double  strings 
of  wire,  tuned  I  |  |  (below  the  next  t ) ;  a  gittern — an 
instrument  like  the  cittern,  but  smaller  and  strung  with 
sinew  instead  of  wire,  sometimes  called  "  Spanish  viol," 
as  in  a  catalogue  of  the  musical  instruments  left  in  charge 
of  Philip  van  Wilder  at  the  death  of  Henry  VIII,  which 
mentions  "  four  Gitterons,  which  are  called  Spanish 
Vialls";    and    a    lute  —  an    instrument    larger    than   our 


lo     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

guitar,  with  a  pear-shaped  back,  and  eight  frets  which,  in- 
stead of  brass  Hke  those  on  the  mandolin,  were  made  of 
sinew  kite-strings  tied  round  the  neck  and  gkied  in  place. 
This  lute  would  likely  be  the  first  instrument  taken  up  by 
a  gentleman  who  was  waiting  while  you  were  in  the  bar- 
ber's hands.  It  was  the  most  popular  instrument  of  the 
time,  ranking  like  the  piano  at  the  present  day.  Here 
you  see  a  gallant  of  the  period  as  he  might  appear  to  you 
while  the  barber  was  rubbing  your  head.  It  is  worth 
while  adding  that  the  barber,  though  still  a  man  of  weight 
and  function  in  all  communities,  was  a  much  more  impor- 
tant personage  in  sixteenth-century  society.  His  pole, 
with  its  stripes  of  red  and  white,  was  not  then  a  merely 
formal  sign  ;  you  would  often  see  the  original  of  it  in  his 
shop,  to  wit,  bare  arm  stretched  out  and  the  blood  flow- 
ing along  it :  for  the  barber  had  not  ceased  to  be  a  chi- 
rurgeon  and  to  let  blood  from  those  who  were  ailing. 
Moreover,  the  barber  was  dentist.  If  Shakspere  had 
wanted  a  tooth  drawn  he  would  have  gone  to  the  barber- 
shop to  get  it  done.  And  he  managed  to  connect  this  un- 
comfortable profession  with  music  by  the  singular  custom, 
which  prevailed  among  the  barber-dentists,  of  tying  the 
teeth  which  he  had  drawn  to  the  end  of  lute-strings  and 
hanging  them  in  the  window  of  the  shop.  Lutes  were  of 
various  sizes,  from  the  arch-lute,  the  theorbo,  etc.,  to  the 
mandore  and  mandolin,  strung  with  eleven  or  twelve 
strings,  five  doubled,  sometimes  all  six  doubled :  tuned 

Base  Tenor  Counter-tenor  Great  Mean 

C  F  B  flat  D 

Small  Mean  Minikin, Treble,or  Chanterelle 

G  CC 

I  note,  as  additional  evidence  of  the  cultivation  of  music 
in  this  time,  how  often  the  pcetsof  the  period  draw  strong 


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Upttg^A^r      ii,^^I\ 

'  ^  [  J  it^'^  ■  5*^  ^^/f^  it  ^^^fi^ 

I     vSllfe^      [»■    mm'/^W^ 

^  ■°^ii®     t'^  W/&'f^  '  / 

^«|p  ^^^  r*^j^ 

i^^^^^^i^r^  Ik 

J^^^y     M  V 

''■'^^M^^'^ab     M//'     ^'^^ 

^^^^''s^P^^  //////     J^H 

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W^i^M                fW^^r^ 

('^■'^^"^^■l                      Mi  III                   ■f^Y           F''C 

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Musical  Instruments  of  Shakspere's  Time 

Viol 


Recorder 


Virginals 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S    TIME     ii 

similes  from  the  playing  upon  musical  instruments.  Take, 
for  example,  a  passage  from  Ben  Jonson's  great  comedy  of 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour^  when  a  character  says  of 
another :  "  I  can  compare  him  to  nothing  more  happily 
than  a  barber's  Virginals  ;  for  every  man  may  play  upon 
him." 

Here,  too,  one  cannot  help  recalling  that  wonderful 
talk  of  Hamlet's  in  Act  III,  Scene  II,  to  Rosencrantz 
and  Guildenstern.  These  two  worthy  gentlemen  have 
been  trying  to  pump  him,  you  remember,  to  make  him 
speak,  and  in  various  ways  to  play  upon  him.    Presently, 

Enter  the  Players^  xvith  Recorders. 

The  recorder  was  a  wind  instrument  something  like  a 
clarinet  in  shape  and  like  a  flageolet  in  tone. 

Ham.  O,  the  recorders !  let  me  see  one.  .  .  .  Will  you 
play  upon  this  pipe  ? 

Guild.\     My  lord,  I  cannot. 

Ham.      I  pray  you. 

Guild.      Believe  me,  I  cannot. 

Ham.      I  do  beseech  you. 

Guild.      I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. 

Ham.  'Tis  as  easy  as  lying  :  govern  these  ventages  with  your 
fingers  and  thumb,  give  it  breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it  will  dis- 
course most  eloquent  music.      Look  you,  these  are  the  stops. 

Guild.  But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any  utterance  of  har- 
mony ;   I  have  not  the  skill. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a  thing  you  make 
of  me  !  You  would  play  upon  me  ;  you  would  seem  to  know  my 
stops ;  you  would  pluck  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery ;  you  would 
sound  me  from  my  lowest  note  to  the  top  of  my  compass  :  and 
there  is  much  music,  excellent  voice,  in  this  little  organ  ;  yet  can- 
not you  make  it  speak.  'Sblood,  do  you  think  I  am  easier  to  be 
played  on  than  a  pipe  ?  Call  me  what  instrunient  you  will,  though 
you  can  fret  me,  yet  you  cannot  play  upon  me. 


12     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Again,  quaint  old  Thomas  Tusser,  author  of  the  Five 
Hundred  Points  of  Good  Husbandry^  I570j  advises  every 
housewife  to  always  choose  a  servant  who  sings  at  work  ; 
he  says  : 

Such  servants  are  oftenest  painfull  and  good 
Who  sing  in  their  labour  as  birds  in  the  wood. 

Perhaps,  therefore,  when  next  you  are  so  unfortunate  as  to 
go  to  an  intelligence  office,  when  you  find  that  the  candi- 
date whom  the  gentlemanly  proprietor  calls  up  can  cook, 
it  would  be  well  to  inquire  also  of  her  qualifications  in 
singing. 

And  old  Merrythought,  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
says  :  "  Never  trust  a  tailor  that  does  not  sing  at  his  work, 
for  his  mind  is  of  nothing  but  filching." 

This  is  indeed  but  another  method  of  stating  the 
famous  sentiment  in  Shakspere's  Merchant  of  Venice^ 
Act  V,  Scene  1,  where  Lorenzo  concludes  his  ravish- 
ing little  conversation  with  Jessica  about  music  by  declar- 
ing that 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 

Nor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 

Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems  and  spoils ; 

The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 

And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus : 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

j  I  find  quoted  more  than  once  during  this  period  a 
proverb  which  expresses  the  same  idea  in  a  more  general 
form,  and  which  I  suspect  is  an  old  Spanish  saying 
imported  into  England  : 

\      Who  loves  not  music^  God  loves  not  him. 

\\  Again,  music  seems  to  have  been  as  much  a  part  of  the 
education   of  young  ladies    in  Shakspere's   time  as   now. 


C  .'5. 

c3    ^ 


-r.       <^ 


o 

o 


THE    MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S    TIME     13 

Some  of  the  most  cunning  scenes  in  The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew  are  connected  with  this  circumstance.  I  cannot 
help  recalling  these  to  you,  in  the  briefest  way.  You 
remember  that  Lucentio  and  Hortensio,  the  one  disguised 
as  a  scholar,  the  other  as  a  musician, —  or  rather  a  teacher 
of  music, —  procure  themselves  to  be  introduced  into  Bap- 
tista's  house  as  tutors  to  his  daughters  Katharina  and 
Bianca,  both  gentlemen  being  bent  upon  making  love  to 
Bianca.  Scene  I  of  Act  II  is  a  room  in  Baptista's 
house,  where  presently,  after  a  stormy  scene  betwixt  Katha- 
rina and  Bianca,  enters  Baptista ;  then  the  two  young 
women  go  out,  whereupon  enter  to  Baptista  Signior 
Gremio,  with  Lucentio  in  the  mean  habit  of  a  scholar, 
Petruchio,  with  Hortensio  disguised  as  a  musician,  and 
Tranio,  with  Biondello  bearing  a  lute  and  books. 

Pet.     {Speaking  to  Baptista)  I  am  a  gentleman  of  Verona,  sir, 
That   .   ^  . 

Am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guest 
Within  your  house,  to  make  mine  eye  the  witness 
Of  that  report  which  I  so  oft  have  heard. 
And,  for  an  entrance  to  my  entertainment, 
I  do  present  you  with  a  man  of  mine, 

(^Presenting  Hortensio) 
Cunning  in  music  and  the  mathematics, 
To  instruct  her  fully  in  those  sciences, 
Whereof  I  know  she  is  not  ignorant : 
Accept  of  him,  or  else  you  do  me  wrong  : 
His  name  is  Licio,  born  in  Mantua. 

Bap.     You're  welcome,  sir ;  and   he,  for  your  good  sake.   .   .  . 

Gre.  Neighbour,  this  is  a  gift  very  grateful,  I  am  sure  of  it. 
To  express  the  like  kindness,  myself,  that  have  been  more  kindly 
beholden  to  you  than  any,  I  freely  give  unto  you  this  young 
scholar  (Presenting  Lucentio),  that  hath  been  long  studying  at 
Rheims ;  as  cunning  in  Greek,  Latin  and  other  languages,  as  the 


14    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

other  in  music  and  mathematics  :  his  name  is  Cambio ;  pray, 
accept  his  service. 

Bap.      A    thousand    thanks,  Signior  Gremio.      Welcome,  good 
Cambio.   .   .   . 

Tra.      Pardon  me,  sir.   .   .   . 
This  Hberty  is  all  that  I  request. 
That,  upon  knowledge  of  my  parentage, 
I  may  have  welcome  'mongst  the  rest  that  woo 
And  free  access  and  favour  as  the  rest : 
And,  toward  the  education  of  your  daughters, 
I  here  bestow  a  simple  instrument,  (^Pointing  to  the  lute) 
And  this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books  : 
If  you  accept  them,  then  their  worth  is  great. 

Bap.  .  .  .  Take   you  (To  Hortensio)   the  lute,  and  you 

(To  LucENTio)  the  set  of  books; 

You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 

Holla,  within  ! 

Efitcr  a  Servant. 

Sirrah,  lead 
These  gentlemen  to  my  daughters  ;  and  tell  them  both. 
These  are  their  tutors  :   bid  them  use  them  well. 

It  would  seem  that  Hortensio,  the  pretended  music- 
teacher,  first  attempts  to  teach  Katharina  the  Shrew.  The 
nature  of  the  usage  which  the  poor  musician  receives  at 
the  hands  of  this  pupil  presently  appears  : 

Reenter  Hortensio,  with  his  head  broken. 

Bap.      How  now,  my  friend  !   why  dost  thou  look  so  pale  ? 

Hor.      For  fear,  I  promise  you,  if  I  look  pale. 

Bap.     What,  will  my  daughter  prove  a  good  musician  ? 

Hor.     I  think  she'll  sooner  prove  a  soldier : 
Iron  may  hold  with  her,  but  never  lutes. 

Bap.     Why,  then  thou  canst  not  break  her  to  the  lute  ? 

Hor.     Why,  no  ;   for  she  hath  broke  the  lute  to  me. 
I  did  but  tell  her  she  mistook  her  frets. 
And  bow'd  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering; 


A  Lute  Accompaniment  of  Sliakspere's  Time 
Kngnivcd  bv  .Indonin  from  tlic paiiiliir^  by  Xitscher peii. 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME      15 

When,  with  a  most  impatient  devilish  spirit, 

Frets^  call  you  these?  quoth  she  ;    F II  fume  with  them  : 

And,  with  that  word,  she  struck  me  on  the  head, 

And  through  the  instrument  my  pate  made  way ; 

And  there  I  stood  amazed  for  a  while. 

As  on  a  pillory,  looking  through  the  lute  j 

While  she  did  call  me  rascal  fiddler 

And  twangling  fack ;  with  twenty  such  vile  terms. 

As  she  had  studied  to  misuse  me  so. 

But  afterwards  the  two  pretended  tutors  get  access  to  the 
milder  Bianca,  and  proceed  to  teach  her,  as  far  as  they 
can,  the  only  lore  in  which  either  of  them  has  any  skill. 
I  will  not  dare  to  give  this  scene  as  a  specimen  of  the  sys- 
tem employed  by  musicians  in  teaching  their  lady  pupils 
during  Shakspere's  time ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  the 
methods  are  not  without  illustration  In  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. The  scene  is  the  first  of  Act  III  :  y^  Room  in  Bap- 
tistas  House.  Enter  Lucentio  (the  pretended  Greek  and 
Latin  tutor),  Hortensio  (the  pretended  musician),  and 
Bianca,  whom  I  might  as  well  call  the  pretended  pupil, 
for  she  could  doubtless  have  taught  both  her  masters  in 
that  science  of  love  which  they  really  professed,  and  which 
every  woman  understands  by  nature  better  than  any  man 
does  by  study.  The  two  tutors  endeavour  to  outwit 
each  other  in  giving  the  first  lesson  : 

Luc.     {Scornfully  addressing   HoRTENSio)      Fiddler, 
forbear ;  you  grow  too  forward,  sir : 
Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  entertainment 
Her  sister  Katharine  welcom'd  you  withal  ? 

Hor.      But,  wrangling  pedant,  this  is 
The  patroness  of  heavenly  harmony : 
Then  give  me  leave  to  have  prerogative ; 
And  when  in  music  we  have  spent  an  hour. 


i6  SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Your  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much.   .   .   . 

Bian.     Take  you  your  instrument,  play  you  the  whiles ; 
His  lecture  will  be  done  ere  you  have  tun'd. 

Hor.  (  To  Bianca)  You'll  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  in  tune  ? 

(HoRTENSiO  retires.) 

Luc.     That  will  be  never  :  tune  your  instrument. 

Bian.     Where  left  we  last  ? 

Luc.      Here,  madam  : 

Hie  ibat  Simois ;  hie  est  Sigeia  tellus ; 
Hie  steterat  Priami  regia  celsa  senis. 

Bian,     Construe  them. 

Luc.  Hie  ibat.,  as  I  told  you  before, —  Simois.,  I  am  Lucentio, — 
hie  est,  son  unto  Vincentio  of  Pisa, —  Sigeia  tellus,  disguised  thus  to 
get  your  love ; —  Hie  steterat,  and  that  Lucentio  that  comes 
a-wooing, —  Priami,  is  my  man  Tranio, —  regia,  bearing  my  port, 
—  celsa  senis,  that  we  might  beguile  the  old  pantaloon. 

Hor.   (^Returning)   Madam,  my  instrument's  in  tune. 

Bian.      Let's  hear.      {Hortensio  plays.)      O  fie  !   the  treble  jars. 

Luc.      Spit  in  the  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 

Bian.  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  construe  it :  Hie  ibat  Simois, 
I  know  you  not, —  hie  est  Sigeia  tellus,  I  trust  you  not, —  Hie  stet- 
erat Priami,  take  heed  he  hear  us  not, —  regia,  presume  not, — 
celsa  senis,  despair  not. 

Hor.     Madam,  'tis  now  in  tune. 

Luc.  All  but  the  base. 

Hor.     The  base  is  right ;  'tis  the  base  knave  that  jars. 
How  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is  !   .   .   . 
(To  Lucentio)  You  may  go  walk  and  give  me  leave  a  while : 
My  lessons  make  no  music  in  three  parts. 

Luc.     Are  you  so  formal,  sir  ?   well,  I  must  wait, 
{Aside)   And  watch  withal ;   for,  but  I  be  deceiv'd. 
Our  fine  musician  groweth  amorous. 

Hor.      Madam,  before  you  touch  the  instrument, 
To  learn  the  order  of  my  fingering, 
I  must  begin  with  rudiments  of  art ; 


THE   MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     17 

To  teach  you  gamut  in  a  briefer  sort, 
More  pleasant,  pithy,  and  effectual. 
Than  hath  been  taught  by  any  of  my  trade : 
And  there  it  is  in  writing,  fairly  drawn. 

Bian.      Why,  I  am  past  my  gamut  long  ago. 
Hor.     Yet  read  the  gamut  of  Hortensio. 
Bian.      (^Reads)      G2Ln\\i\.  I  am^  the  ground  of  all  accord^ 
A  re,  to  plead  Hortensio' s  passion  ; 
B  mi,  Bianca^  take  him  for  thy  lord., 

C  fa  ut,  that  loves  with  all  affection  : 
D  sol  re,  one  cliff  two  notes  have  I: 
E  la  mi,  show  pity.,  or  I  die. 

Call  you  this  gamut  ?  tut,  I  like  it  not : 

Old  fashions  please  me  best ;   I  am  not  so  nice. 

To  change  true  rules  for  odd  inventions. 

Perhaps  it  is  by  the  rebound  of  contrast  that  poor  Hor- 
tensio's  broken  head  in  this  fictitious  comedy  carries 
my  mind  to  three  all  too  real  tragedies  of  this  period,  in 
each  of  which  an  unfortunate  musician  had  his  head 
broken  beyond  all  mending.  First  in  order  comes  poor 
Mark  Smeaton,  who  taught  music  to  the  lovely  Anne 
Bullen,  and  whom  Henry  VIII  had  executed  upon  a 
pretext  that  (like  Hortensio)  he  had  taught  her  more 
love  than  music  ;  four  years  later  —  in  1 540  —  the  same 
Henry  VIII  hanged  and  quartered  Thomas  Abel,  who 
was  musical  tutor  to  his  Queen  Catherine,  because  Abel 
wrote  a  tract  against  the  divorce ;  and  twenty-six  years 
after  this  David  Rizzio,  the  musical  secretary  of  that  poor 
lovely  Mary,  was  murdered  in  her  very  presence. 

But  I  will  not  accumulate  more  circumstances  or  quo- 
tations to  show  you  the  fact  I  started  out  to  prove  —  that 
the  English  in  Shakspere's  time  were  ardent  music-lovers, 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  orders  of  society.     Every- 


i8  SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

where  you  heard  the  organ,  the  stately  motett  and  involute 
(canaro),  the  Puritan's  psalm,  the  jolly  catch,  the  melodi- 
ous madrigal,  the  tinkling  of  citterns,  gitterns,  lutes,  and 
virginals,  the  soft  breaths  of  recorders,  the  louder  strains 
of  clarion,  sackbut,  shawm,  hautboy,  trumpet,  cymbal,  and 
drum.  Everybody  sang  ballads  ;  the  number  of  ballads 
printed  in  this  time  is  simply  enormous.  There  is  a  line 
in  Bishop  Hale's  satires  which  always  brings  up  to  me  a 
pleasant  picture  of  old  ballad-singing  England,  in  which 
he  speaks  of  ballads  as  being 

Sung  to  the  wheel  and  sung  unto  the  pail, 

i.e.,  sung  by  those  who  sat  at  the  spinning-wheel,  and  by 
the  milkmaids  as  they  milked  into  the  pails. 

In  an  old  piece  called  Martin  Marsixtus,  dating  1592, 
is  a  livelier  description  of  the  flood  of  ballads  which  rained 
upon  England  in  this  period  ;  he  cries  :  "  Every  red-nosed 
rhymester  is  an  author.  .  .  .  Scarce  a  cat  can  look  out  of  a 
gutter,  but  out  starts  a  half-penny  chronicler  and  presently 
a  proper  new  ballet  of  a  strange  sight  is  indited."  Per- 
haps I  can  fitly  conclude  this  sketch  of  the  popularity 
of  music  in  Shakspere's  time  with  a  remark  made  in 
Summer  s  Last  Will  and  Testament^  by  Nash,  a  contempo- 
rary writer.  It  seems  that  a  package  of  lute-strings  was  a 
customary  present  from  a  gallant  to  a  young  lady  in  that 
time  ;  and  it  therefore  shows  the  public  favour  towards 
music  in  general  and  the  lute  in  particular  when  we  find 
Nash's  character  here  recording,  "  I  knew  one  that  ran  in 
debt  in  the  space  of  four  or  five  years  above  fourteen  thou- 
sand pounds  in  lute-strings  and  grey  paper." 

I  have  said  that  Henry  VIII  and  Queen  Elizabeth 
were  musical  amateurs  and  made  it  the  fashion,  but  I  do 
not  mean  that  the  popular  love  for  music  in  England 
depended  at  all  on  this  royal  favour.  We  trace  the  same 
devotion  to  music  among  Englishmen  long  before  Henry 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME      19 

and  Elizabeth.  Chaucer  is  full  of  naive  and  cunning  illus- 
trations that  England  was  as  musical  in  the  fourteenth 
century  as  in  the  sixteenth.  You  will  remember  the  Nun, 
of  whom  I  read  in  one  of  my  earlier  lectures,  so  exquisitely 
described  in  the  Prologue  to  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  — 

how 

Ful  wel  sche  sang  the  servise  devyne, 

Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  semyly. 

Again,  we  find  the  young  Squire,  in  the  same  Prologue, 
"singing  and  floyting  all  the  day."  In  this  description 
of  the  musical  Friar  even  the  Chaucerian  vividness  is 
unwontedly  bright : 

Wel  couthe  he  synge  and  playe  on  a  rote. 

Somewhat  he  lipsede  for  wantonnesse 

To  make  his  Englissche  swete  upon  his  tunge ; 

And  in  his  harpyng,  when  that  he  had  sunge. 

His  eyghen  twynkled  in  his  hed  aright 

As  don  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night. 

Of  the  poor  scholar  Nicholas,  Chaucer  says  : 

And  al  above  there  lay  a  gay  sawtrye, 

(The  psaltery  was  an  instrument  of  the  harp  species,  some- 
times triangular  like  this  /<|||>\ 


jn'H!uiuim\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'^\^ 
and  sometimes  square.) 


20    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

On  which  he  made,  a-nightes,  melodye 
So  swetely  that  al  the  chamber  rang. 

The  Parish  Clerk  Absolon  could 

Pleyen  songes  on  a  small  Ribible ; 
Therto  he  sang  a  lowde  quynyble. 
And  as  wel  coude  he  pleye  on  a  giterne. 

The  ribible  was  an  ancestor  of  the  fiddle  species.  The 
"  lowde  quynyble  "  was  when  the  player  sang  the  melody  in 
one  key  and  played  it  in  another  key  a  fifth  above  ;  as,  for 
example,  when  he  sang  a  melody  in  the  key  of  C  and 
played  the  same  melody  at  the  same  time  in  the  key  of 
G.  Of  course  to  a  modern  ear  this  would  be  intolerable  ; 
for  the  whole  performance  would  consist  of  "  consecutive 
fifths,"  which  are  looked  upon  with  horror  and  rigidly  for- 
bidden by  the  modern  systems  of  thorough-base.  It  may 
be  interesting,  however,  to  mention  in  this  connection  that 
I  myself  have  heard  a  similar  performance,  and  have  noted 
that  the  consecutive  fifth  possesses  a  great  fascination  for 
the  stronger-tympanumed  ears  of  those  who  have  lived 
outside  the  current  of  musical  cultivation.  I  have  heard, 
among  the  backwoods  fiddle-players  of  Georgia,  two  per- 
sons play  the  same  melody  in  fifths,  that  is,  one  playing  it 
in  G  while  the  other  played  it  in  C  ;  and  after  the  first  shock 
of  strangeness  to  my  ear  was  over,  I  found  the  effect  weird 
and  stirring  beyond  description.  I  have  also  heard  the 
Georgia  crackers  sing  in  this  way,  one  screaming  a  loud 
"  quynyble  "  to  the  other,  and  this  is  even  more  striking 
than  the  instrumental  performance.  In  Chaucer  also  we 
find  that  the  carpenter's  wife  sang,  and  that  as  for 

Her  song,  it  was  as  lowde  and  yerne 
As  eny  swalwe  chiteryng  on  a  berne. 


A  Seventeenth-century  Mandolin-player 
Engraved  by  Aiidcuiiu /ro»i  the  painting  by  Gerard  Terburg 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S   TIME  21 

The  Pardoner, 

Ful  lowde  he  sang  "  Come  hider,  love,  to  me," 

While  the  Sompnour 

Bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun. 

I  shall  have  occasion  to  explain  these  "  burdouns  "  pres- 
ently. The  Miller  plays  the  "  baggepipe,"  and  there  is 
mention  here  and  there  of  lutes,  shawms,  trumpets,  and 
organs.  Even  William  Langland  —  who,  although  he 
wrote  in  the  same  time  with  Chaucer,  wrote,  one  may  say, 
in  a  different  world,  for  he  saw  English  life  from  the  point 
of  view  of  a  ploughman,  while  Chaucer  saw  it  from  that  of 
a  courtier — even  Langland,  in  his  Vision  of  Piers  Plow- 
many  indignantly  reproaches  the  clergy  that 

They  kennen  no  more  mynstralcy,  ne  musik,  men  to  gladde, 

and  he  records  of  himself, 

Ich  can  not  tabre,  ne  trompe,  ne  telle  faire  gestes, 

Ne  fithelyn  at  festes,  ne  harpen, 

Japen,  ne  jagelyn,  ne  gentillich  pipe, 

Nother  sailen,  ne  sautrien,  ne  singe  with  the  giterne, 

implying,  by  his  own  singularity  in  this  disability,  that 
it  was  common  for  others  to  be  able  to  do  some  of  these 
things. 

Thus  we  find  Englishmen  great  music-lovers  in  Chau- 
cer's period,  and  if  I  had  time  I  could  easily  cite  evidences 
enough  to  show  that  this  love  of  music  was  a  legitimate 
inheritance  from  our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors,  with  whom 
this  art  was  held  in  great  esteem. 

It   is   interesting,  by  the  way, —  before  I  leave  this 


22     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

theme, —  to  ask  the  question,  why  is  it  that,  while  Eng- 
lishmen have  thus  shown  in  all  ages  a  genuine  love  for 
music,  and  while  (as  I  shall  presently  show  more  in  detail) 
the  science  of  music  was  studied  and  the  art  cultivated 
by  scores  of  men  possessing  great  abilities  in  the  sixteenth 
century  and  since,  we  have  never  yet  developed  a  single 
great  English  composer  of  music  ?  Without  stopping  to 
answer  this  question, —  indeed,  I  do  not  know  how  to 
answer  it, —  perhaps  it  will  be  of  interest  to  compare  it 
with  a  similar  question  regarding  women.  We  all  know 
with  what  enthusiastic,  even  religious  devotion  women 
have  loved  music  in  all  ages,  and  particularly  in  this  age  ; 
one  may  almost  say  music  would  have  perished  but  for 
the  active  sympathy  of  women  for  the  art  and  its  artists ; 
and  we  all  know,  further,  what  brilliant  heights  of  excellence 
have  been  attained  by  women  as  executive  musicians,  both 
in  vocal  and  instrumental  kinds  :  yet  no  woman  has  ever 
yet  composed  any  great  music.  Perhaps  the  solution  of 
both  these  questions  is  simply  that  never  yet  is  not  never 
at  all:  it  is  not  conclusive  proof  that  a  thing  may  not  be 
done  in  the  future  to  show  that  it  has  not  been  done  in 
the  past ;  and  perhaps  women  and  Englishmen  will  both 
write  immortal  music  in  the  ages  to  come. 

But  having  now  established  the  musical  character  of 
the  age  in  which  Shakspere  lived  in  general,  I  go  on  fur- 
ther to  say  that  I  find  Shakspere  in  particular  a  special 
adorer  of  music.  I  have  counted  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  references  to  music  in  his  plays,  nearly  all  of  which 
betray  the  tone  of  a  passionate  lover  of  the  art.  Not  only 
so,  but  1  find  occasionally  little  touches  which  give  soHd, 
if  subtle,  proof  that  the  awful  mystery  of  music  had  in  a 
shadowy  way  dawned  on  Shakspere's  soul.  A  single  line 
in  that  immortal  scene  between  Lorenzo  and  Jessica  in 
The  Merchant  of  Venice  reveals  this  : 


THE    MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     23 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I.     Behnont.     Avenue  to  Portia's  House. 

Lorenzo.  .  .  .   How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  :   soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  : 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ey'd  cherubins ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Jessica  breaks  in  upon  this  high  talk  with  this  intuition  : 

I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 

{Music.) 

Jessica  here  pierces  quite  near  to  the  root  of  the  mat- 
ter, namely,  to  that  infinite  underfeeling  of  serious  and 
illimitable  desire  which  every  one  who  knows  music  under- 
stands and  which  no  one  who  knows  music  will  attempt  to 
describe.^  It  seems  much  that  any  hint  of  this  should 
have  dawned  upon  Shakspere,  when  we  reflect  that  he 
died,  poor  soul  !  seventy  years  before  Bach  was  born,  a 
hundred  and  fifty-odd  years  before  Beethoven  was  born  ; 

1  The  sharp  contrast  between  the  ing  joy,  or  mirth,  from  the  Anglo- 
feeling  here  expressed  by  Jessica  Saxon  gligg,  which  meant  music, 
and  the  primitive  conception  of  or  song,  Jessica's  remark  is  the 
music  is  strikingly  shown  by  the  first  note  we  hear  of  the  modern 
derivation  of  our  word  glee^  mean-  sorrow-cultus  in  music. 


24     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  orchestra ;  that,  in  short,  he 
never  heard  anything  that  we  would  call  great  music.  I 
find  another  subtle  touch  of  this  sort  in  that  wonderful  clos- 
ing scene  of  the  play  of  King  Richard  II.  The  poor  fallen 
monarch  in  his  lonesome  room  of  the  castle  of  Pomfret, 
where  Bolingbroke  has  confined  him,  is  meditating  alone,  at 
night,  but  a  few  moments  before  his  death.  Presently  the 
twanging  of  lutes  and  viols  is  heard  in  the  darkness  below 
his  window  ;  some  faithful  soul  has  come  to  sound  up  to 
him  in  this  pathetic  way  that  he  has  at  least  one  friend 
left  living.  The  current  of  his  thought  seizes  upon  the 
music  and  turns  the  stream  of  sound  into  its  own  sad 
direction. 

ACT  V. 

Scene  V.     Pomfret.     The  Castle. 

King  Richard.   .   .   .   Music  do  I  hear  ?  (Afusic.) 

Ha,  ha  !   keep  time  :  how  sour  sweet  music  is, 
When  time  is  broke  and  no  proportion  kept ! 
So  is  it  in  the  music  of  men's  lives. 
And  here  have  I  the  daintiness  of  ear 
To  check  time  broke  in  a  disorder'd  string; 
But  for  the  concord  of  my  state  and  time 
Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 
I  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me ; 

.   .   .   but  my  time 
Runs  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke's  proud  joy, 
While  I  stand  fooling  here,  his  Jack  o'  the  clock. 
This  music  mads  me  ;  let  it  sound  no  more ; 
For  though  it  have  holp  madmen  to  their  wits, 
In  me  it  seems  it  will  make  wise  men  mad. 
Yet  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me ! 
For  'tis  a  sign  of  love;  and  love  to  Richard 
Is  a  strange  brooch  in  this  all-hating  world. 


THE    MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     25 

Reflecting,  as  I  said,  upon  the  fact  that  Shakspere  died 
a  century  before  the  epoch  of  really  great  musical  art,  I 
am  struck  with  astonishment  at  the  deep  and  almost  ador- 
ing reverence  for  music  which  lies  everywhere  revealed 
through  his  writings.  This  astonishment,  however,  is 
only  part  of  a  greater  general  problem  :  for,  from  this 
point  of  view,  how  strange  seem  all  the  stories  of  the 
power  of  music  which  come  down  to  us  from  ancient  times! 
The  Greeks  had  scarcely  anything  that  we  would  call 
music  ;  they  had  no  harmony,  their  instruments  were  weak 
in  tone  and  limited  in  range,  their  melodies  were  crude 
and  poor ;  yet  what  a  cyclus  of  Greek  stories  about  the 
wonders  wrought  with  music,  culminating  in  that  strange 
fable  of  Orpheus,  who  could  move  trees,  stones,  and  floods 
with  his  melodies  ! 

Again,  even  among  a  people  so  barbarous  as  the  early 
Danes,  it  is  related  by  Saxo  Grammaticus  that  Eric,  King 
of  Denmark,  having  heard  that  a  certain  harper  could  cast 
men  into  all  moods  according  to  the  tunes  he  played, 
desired  the  harper  to  play,  and  presently  the  harper  played 
a  fierce  tune,  under  whose  power  the  King  became  so 
enraged  that  he  attacked  even  his  friends  standing  about, 
and,  having  no  weapon,  killed  several  of  them  with  his  fist 
before  he  could  be  appeased  by  a  change  in  the  melody. 
Again,  leaving  the  Indo-European  peoples  and  passing 
over  to  the  great  Semitic  branch  of  the  human  race,  I 
have  somewhere  read  a  gigantic  old  fable — I  cannot  now 
remember  whether  it  was  Rabbinical  or  Mohammedan  — 
that  when  God  first  moulded  the  body  of  Adam  out  of 
the  clay.  He  laid  it  along  the  ground,  and  invited  the  soul  to 
come  and  enter  it.  But  the  soul,  upon  first  beholding  the 
body,  was  displeased  and  frightened  at  the  cold  and  unsightly 
mass  lying  there  on  the  earth  ;  and  the  soul  of  Adam  for  a 
long  time  could  not  be  induced  to  enter  his  body,  until 


26    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

finally  the  angel  Gabriel  came  and  sat  at  the  feet  of  the 
body  and  played  on  the  flageolet  a  melody  so  ravishing 
that  the  soul  straightway  entered  in  at  the  mouth  of  the 
body,  and  Adam  arose  a  perfect  man.  What  a  deep  and 
beautiful  commentary  do  these  stories  make  on  the  mys- 
terious reality  of  music  and  on  the  mysterious  growth  of 
man,  when  we  think  that  they  were  invented  ages  before 
the  existence  of  any  musical  combinations  which  would 
sensibly  afi^ect  the  emotions  of  a  modern  hearer! 

The  mention  of  the  music  which  Shakspere  did  not 
hear  now  leads  us  quite  naturally  to  the  consideration  of 
that  which  he  did  hear,  and  1  shall  devote  my  next  lecture 
to  that  very  interesting  subject.  I  shall  then  explain  the 
two  general  kinds  of  music  in  Shakspere's  time,  to  wit, 
extempore  discant  and  pricksong ;  I  shall  then  take  up 
in  detail  the  sort  of  church  music  with  Shakspere's  con- 
temporaries were  accustomed  to  hear,  both  the  formal 
canons  of  the  Church  and  the  simpler  psalms  of  the  Puri- 
tans ;  I  shall  then  consider  the  sorts  of  secular  music 
which  Shakspere  was  accustomed  to  hear,  particularly  the 
madrigal,  the  catch,  and  the  ballad,  on  the  vocal  side, 
and  the  dance-tunes  on  the  instrumental  side,  particularly 
the  galliard,  the  passamezzo  or  paspy,  the  coranto,  the 
morrice-dance,  and  the  pavan  ;  I  shall  next  present  some 
account  of  the  great  English  musicians  of  Shakspere's 
time,  who  were  in  various  ways  very  interesting  men  and 
ought  to  be  better  known  to  us  than  they  are.  I  hope  to  be 
able  to  give  you  some  actual  reproductions  of  Shaksperian 
music  in  illustration  of  these  matters  ;  for  this  purpose  I 
have  selected  a  very  pretty  canon  of  old  John  Taverner's 
for  five  voices,  which  I  found  in  the  Peabody  Library ; 
also  a  part-song  by  John  Milton,  father  of  the  poet,  who 
was  a  good  musician.  Then  I  have  a  madrigal  of  Shak- 
spere's time,  and   I   think  I  shall  be  able  to  find  an  old 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     27 

catch  such  as  the  jolly  Sir  Toby  roared  out  with  his  com- 
panions in  Olivia's  house  ;  I  have  also  a  very  pretty  galliard 
by  Frescobaldi  dating  from  1637  ;  a  song  called  The  Song 
of  Anne  Bullen,  and  said  to  have  been  written  by  her  not 
long  before  her  execution  ;  I  have  also  the  tune  of  Green- 
sleeveSy  which  Shakspere  mentions,  and  to  which  scores  of 
sonnets  and  ballads  were  sung ;  and  finally  I  have  the 
Cuckoo  Song,  which  is  a  good  specimen  of  a  song  with  a 
"  burdoun  "  such  as  the  Sompnour  roared  with  the  Par- 
doner in  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales.  If  I  succeed  in  find- 
ing the  voices  to  sing  these  part-songs  properly,  it  is  my 
desire  to  have  the  class  meet  at  my  own  house,  where  we 
shall  have  the  piano  and  other  facilities  for  music ;  but  of 
that  you  shall  have  due  notice,  and,  unless  you  have  notice, 
I  will  ask  you  to  meet  here  as  usual.  I  sincerely  hope  I 
may  be  able  to  get  up  the  voices  for  the  music,  so  that 
when  you  shall  have  heard  it  you  will  know  what  ideas 
Shakspere  had  in  his  mind  when  the  bewildered  Ferdinand, 
in  The  Tempest,  following  the  sprite  Ariel  in  the  air,  cries, 
"  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  th'  air  or  th'  earth  ?  " 

.   .   .  Sure,  it  waits  upon 

Some  god  o'  th'  island.    Sitting  on  a  bank, 

Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 

This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters, 

Allaying  both  their  fury  and  my  passion 

With  its  sweet  air.   .   .   . 

This  is  no  mortal  business. 


CHAPTER   XIV 


THE   MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME— II 


N  the  last  lecture  I  discussed  the 
general  cultivation  of  music  in  Shak- 
spere's  time,  and  Shakspere's  own  spe- 
cial fondness  for  the  art.  In  the 
course  of  the  discussion  we  arrived  at 
a  point  where  we  found  it  surprising 
that  Shakspere  should  have  had  such 
an  exalted  idea  of  the  power  of  music 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  he  lived  a  century  before  that 
development  of  the  orchestra  was  accomplished  which  we 
regard  as  the  only  adequate  form  of  music.  Thus  in 
considering  the  music  which  Shakspere  did  not  hear,  we 
were  led  to  think  of  the  kind  of  music  which  Shakspere 
did  hear,  and  that  is  the  subject  of  my  lecture  to-day. 

I  have  more  than  once  had  occasion  in  different  con- 
nections to  mention  the  term  "  discant."  In  Shakspere's 
time  that  great  species  of  musical  form  which  bore  this 
name  may  be  said  to  have  reached  its  climax.  It  had 
been  a  long  time  in  doing  so,  however ;  for,  in  order  to 
understand  clearly  the  kind  of  music  which  for  so  many 
years,  nay,  for  so  many  centuries,  ministered  to  the  souls 
of  our  elders  in  this  world,  v^^e  must  go  back  a  thousand 

z8 


Pope  Gregory  the  Great,  with  his  Father  and  Mother 


From  au  old  cngnn'ing 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     29 

years  beyond  Shakspere.  In  the  latter  part  of  the  sixth 
century,  Pope  Gregory  the  Great  collected  and  published 
a  number  of  melodies  which  had  long  been  employed  in 
the  church  service,  including,  it  is  said,  several  melodies 
of  his  own  composition.  This  collection  was  called  his 
antiphonarium.  Great  store  was  set  by  it,  insomuch  that 
it  was  kept  fastened  by  a  chain  to  the  altar  of  St.  Peter's, 
in  order  that  it  might  be  convenient  for  reference  and  for 
future  additions  to,  or  alterations  in,  the  melodies  which 
it  contained.  Now  these  melodies,  thus  brought  definitely 
together  by  St.  Gregory,  played  a  part  of  paramount  im- 
portance in  music  for  a  thousand  years  on,  and  more. 
You  have  all  heard  of  what  is  called  the  "  Gregorian 
chant."  This  is  a  term  applied  to  the  tunes  contained 
in  the  antiphonarium  of  Gregory's.  Observe  that  only  a 
part  of  these  tunes  were  composed  by  Gregory.  A  large 
number  of  them  were  already  in  existence,  and  had  been 
from  time  immemorial.  Let  me  call  your  attention  to 
this  circumstance  here,  which  has  most  important  bearing 
on  the  matter  of  the  present  lecture.  Nowadays,  when 
we  think  of  a  musical  composer,  we  regard  him  as  one 
who  originates  melodies^  one  who  gives  fresh  tunes  to  the 
world.  You  will  find,  as  I  proceed  in  the  development 
of  my  subject,  that  one  great  and  cardinal  distinction 
of  modern  music  as  opposed  to  the  music  of  Shakspere's 
time  is  that  the  composers  of  that  period  did  not  address 
themselves  to  the  invention  of  new  tunes  so  much  as  to 
the  contrapuntal  treatment  of  old  tunes.  A  number  of  in- 
genious devices,  which  I  shall  presently  explain,  were 
invented  by  which  an  old  tune  could  be  redacted  into  a 
wonderful  variety  of  musical  effects,  while  still  preserving 
at  least  the  outline  of  its  individuality. 

It  would  be  an  inquiry  of  deep  fascination,  even  to 
many  who  have  no  special  interest  in  music,  to  trace  the 


xi 


30     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

origin  of  these  melodies,  known  now  as  the  Gregorian 
chants,  which  for  so  many  ages  formed  the  stock  in  trade 
of  all  musical  invention  in  Europe.  For  almost  the  very 
first  step  in  the  inquiry  leads  us  back  from  the  sort  of 
music  which  Shakspere  was  accustomed  to  hear  to  the 
sort  of  music  which  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  was  accustomed 
to  hear.  Permit  me  in  a  dozen  words  to  point  out  at 
least  the  path  which  this  inquiry  would  follow.  I  have 
said  that  Pope  Gregory  found  a  number  of  tunes  in  ex- 
istence which  he  noted  and  fixed  for  succeeding  ages. 
Two  hundred  years  before  Gregory's  time,  an  event  some- 
what similar  occurred  in  the  history  of  music,  which  I,  for 
one,  can  never  recall  to  myself  without  emotion.  In  the 
end  of  the  fourth  century.  Bishop  Ambrose  of  Milan, 
together  with  his  people,  suffered  great  affliction  under  the 
relentless  persecutions  of  the  Aryan  empress  Justina.  It 
is  a  naive  and  touching  witness  to  that  ideal  of  the  con- 
nection between  music  and  the  needs  of  our  every-day  life 
which  all  fervent  musicians  should  cherish  and  exalt,  that 
the  good  Bishop  Ambrose,  for  the  explicit  purpose  of 
consolation  in  the  midst  of  these  afflictions,  called  in  the 
aid  of  music.  Expressly  for  the  solace  of  his  suffering 
people,  he  ordained  that  psalms  and  hymns  should  be 
sung  antiphonally  in  the  churches,  and  he  organised  many 
musical  details  to  this  end,  perfecting  the  scale  by  a  Greek 
tetrachord  which  he  selected,  and  finally  giving  rise  to 
what  was  known  as  the  Ambrosian  chant.  I  often  please 
myself  with  reflecting  upon  an  artless  little  inconsistency 
which  I  find  in  the  confessions  of  St.  Augustine,^  and 
which  bears  a  quite  unconscious  witness  to  the  pleasure 
which  he  found  in  this  old  Ambrosian  chant.  He  would 
seem  —  in  a  certain  morbidness  of  feeling  which  very  well 

1  Lib.   X,  xxxiii,  50,  cited  in  Magister   Choralis  by  F.    Zavier  Haberl, 

F.  Pustet,  1877. 


St.  Ambrose 
From  au  ewj-yavhv'  in  "  I'ic's  dts  HoniDics  Ilhistres' 


THE    MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME    31 

belongs  to  his  time,  and  which  probably  all  of  us  can  par- 
allel in  our  youthful  religious  experiences  —  to  have  been 
a  little  afraid  that  he  had  no  right  to  be  moved  too  deeply 
by  the  purely  sensuous  fall  of  musical  tones  on  the  ear, 
but  that  he  ought  to  be  moved  by  those  holy  words  of 
scripture  which  were  sung ;  and  so  he  says  :  "  When  I 
remember  the  tears  I  shed  at  the  psalmody  of  the  church 
in  the  beginning  of  my  recovered  faith,  and  how  at  this 
time  I  am  moved  not  with  the  singing,  but  with  the 
things  sung,  when  they  are  sung  with  a  clear  voice  and  suit- 
able modulation^  I  acknowledge  the  great  use  of  this  insti- 
tution." Of  course,  if  he  were  moved  only  with  "  the 
things  sung,"  it  would  make  no  difference  whether  they 
were  sung  "with  a  clear  voice  and  suitable  modulation  " 
or  not ;  and  in  this  naive  proviso  the  good  ^saint's  ear 
very  cunningly  sets  up  its  claim  to  be  a  sweet  and  holy 
adviser  of  the  soul.  But  this  by  the  way.  Here  we  find 
in  the  fourth  century  still  a  stock  of  tunes  constituting 
the  body  of  music  ;  and  it  was  this  stock  which  our  Greg- 
ory afterwards  fixed  and  increased. 

The  next  step  backwards  takes  us  from  the  fourth  cen- 
tury to  the  second.  In  the  year  no  Pliny  the  Younger 
wrote  a  letter  to  Trajan,  in  which  he  describes  the  Chris- 
tians "  meeting  on  a  certain  day  before  daylight  and  sing- 
ing by  turns  a  hymn  to  Christ  as  to  a  God." 

And  the  next  step  in  this  inquiry  takes  us  to  Christ 
himself  On  that  climacteric  evening  when  He  and  his 
disciples  sat  at  their  last  supper,  after  He  had  blessed  the 
bread  and  given  it  to  them  as  his  body,  and  the  wine  as 
his  blood,  and  had  declared:  "  But  I  say  unto  you,  I  will 
not  drink  henceforth  of  this  fruit  of  the  vine,  until  that 
day  when  I  drink  it  new  with  you  in  my  Father's  king- 
dom," it  would  seem  that  the  emotions  of  the  moment  had 
risen  to  that  point  where  words  do  not  bring  comfort ;  and 


32    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS   FORERUNNERS 

so  I  find  the  might  of  music  working  in  the  next  verse  (of 
Matthew  xxvi.  30),  which  records:  "  And  when  they  had 
sung  an  hymn,  they  went  out  into  the  mount  of  Olives." 
If  we  knew  the  tune  of  that  hymn  ! 

Here,  you  observe,  as  far  back  as  the  beginning  of  our 
era,  we  find  the  world  in  possession  of  a  stock  of  tunes. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  melodies  which  the 
disciples  sang  with  Christ  in  person  were  handed  down 
and  formed  the  body  of  those  collections  which  Bishop 
Ambrose  —  and  after  him  Pope  Gregory  —  brought  toge- 
ther ;  and  it  is  possible  enough  that  the  hymn  which  Christ 
and  his  Apostles  sang  was  sung  yesterday  in  some  church 
of  Baltimore;  for  we  have  tunes  in  our  psalmody  —  not  to 
speak  of  the  Gregorian  tunes  still  surviving  as  plain  chant 
in  the  Catholic  churches  —  which  have  come  down  from 
quite  immemorial  times,  and  the  path  of  church  music,  as 
I  have  shown,  leads  directly  back  to  this  hymn  which  was 
sung  on  the  evening  of  the  Last  Supper.  It  leads,  in 
truth,  much  farther  back  than  that :  the  Greek  melodies 
which  must  have  formed  the  body  of  the  apostolic  hymns 
carry  us  to  times  long  before  the  Christian  era — to  old 
pagan  Greek  times,  to  old  Hebrew  times,  nay,  to  old 
Egyptian  times. 

But  to  go  farther  in  that  direction  is  not  within  the 
scope  of  this  present  lecture.  I  have  given  this  brief  sketch 
of  the  tunes  by  which  the  Christians  always  testified  (as 
Tertullian  hath  it  —  Apology,  chapter  xxx)  "in  singing 
their  prayers  .  .  .  that  they  did  not  worship  as  men  with- 
out hope,"  in  order  to  call  your  attention  to  the  corpus  of 
melody  which  presented  itself  when  the  composers  of  Shak- 
spere's  time  began  their  work.  This  corpus  consisted 
mainly  of  the  Gregorian  chants,  with  such  additions  and 
improvements  as  had  been  here  and  there  struck  out  by 
the  labours  of  isolated  genius. 

Now  the  general  method  of  treating  these  fundamental 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     33 

bases  of  music  —  or  tunes — in  Shakspere's  time  was  that 
which  was  called  discant.  Perhaps  as  good  a  definition 
of  discant  as  any  occurs  in  Richard  Edwards's  notable  old 
play  of  Damon  and  Pythias^  the  first  tragedy  lightened  with 
comedy  which  we  have,  dating  from  1564,  the  year  of 
Shakspere's  birth.  Here  it  is  said  that  the  Collier  sings  a 
"  buffing  base,"  while  two  of  his  fellows,  Jack  and  Will, 
"  quiddell  upon  it."  You  will  get  a  more  vivid  idea  of 
discant  in  general  from  a  single  example  than  from  hours 
of  description.  If,  therefore,  we  analyse  in  the  briefest 
way  a  composition  of  this  sort,  you  will  immediately  per- 
ceive the  fundamental  idea  upon  which  all  the  varieties  of 
discant  were  based. 

For  this  purpose  I  have  selected  a  piece  which  will 
Illustrate  at  once  the  church  music  and  the  secular  music 
of  the  period  —  to  wit,  the  Cuckoo  Song.  I  have  before 
alluded  to  this  beautiful  composition;  it  is  of  interest  as 
the  first  English  verse  which  we  find  with  the  music  accom- 
panying. It  was  discovered,  as  you  remember,  written  on 
the  cover  of  what  appears  to  have  been  a  monk's  common- 
place-book, preserved  in  the  Harleian  Library.  You  will 
doubtless  be  struck  with  the  slow  progress  of  music  in  those 
days  when  you  find  me  selecting  a  piece  which  dates  —  as 
the  Cuckoo  Song  does  —  from  about  a.d.  1240,  to  illus- 
trate the  kind  of  music  prevalent  in  Shakspere's  time,  i.e., 
four  hundred  years  afterwards.  It  was,  in  truth,  also  with  a 
view  to  bringing  out  this  fact  that  I  chose  the  Cuckoo 
Song;  and  from  this  point  of  view  you  will  observe,  by 
the  way,  that  an  astonishing  phenomenon  is  the  develop- 
ment which  has  taken  place  in  music  within  the  last  two 
hundred  years. 

Let  us  consider,  then,  what  was  equivalent  to  the 
"buffing  base  "  of  the  Collier,  and  see  how  Jack  and  Will 
could  "  quiddell  upon  it." 

At    the   bottom   of  the    original   leaf  on   which    the 


34     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 


Cuckoo  Song  is  written  you  will  notice  a  strain  marked 
Pes.  This  pes,  from  the  Latin  word  pes,  meaning  a  foot, 
was  the  burden,  or,  here,  buffing  base,  upon  which  the  rest 
of  the  piece  stood  as  upon  2.  pes,  or  foot.^  It  consists  of 
these  notes,  which  I  will  put  all  in  the  treble  clef  for  easier 
comprehension  : 


t=t- 


i^-*-^— ' 


:^^=t 


Sum 


er 


IS 


cum   -    en 


in 


Now  when  the  Collier  commenced  to  buff  this  base,  Jack, 
we  will  say,  begins  to  quiddle  upon  it  with  this  melody : 


:t 


-^••^ 


Sum  -  er      is        y. .  cum  -  en      in. .   Lhud  -  e     sing  cue  -  cu 

Those  of  you  who  have  studied  harmony  will  easily  see 
that  these  two  melodies  would  go  together  without  discord. 
But  presently  Will  comes  in  with  an  additional  complexity 
in  the  way  of  quiddling.  When  Jack  has  reached  the 
fifth  bar  of  his  melody.  Will  begins  to  sing  the  first  bar 
of  it,  and  continues  then  to  the  end,  singing  the  same  mel- 
ody with  Jack,  but  always  just  four  bars  behind,  the  mel- 
ody being  so  composed  that  if  it  were  divided  into  groups 
of  four  bars  each,  counting  from  the  beginning,  any  one  of 
these  groups  may  be  sung  at  the  same  time  with  any  other 
of  the  groups  without  discord.  Here,  now,  are  three 
voices  going.  If  there  were  other  singers  besides  the  Col- 
lier and  Jack  and  Will  they  too  could  enter.  In  the  first 
place  the  pes,  or  burden,  here  is  so  constructed  that  the 
first  four  bars  of  it  may  be  sung  at  the  same  time  with  the 
last  four.  Therefore  if,  by  the  time  the  first  four  bars  have 
been  sung,  a  fourth  singer  —  we  will  say  Tom  —  takes  up 


^  Chaucer:  The  Pardonere  sang,  and  the  Sompnoure 
•'  Bar  to  him  a  stiff  burdoun." 


^^ 


=^=^ 


45: 


^ 


mc&  an5  %tngj^  {>c^y^nth^ngr  aicai  Tm^g  llcn^  afaf 


■«- 


^ 


-^"^ 


_gL 


3-^ 


^    ^    ''it 


£^ 


-i^ 


WCt'C 


Vtl  tt^UCr  Till*  ln\gcEiifitl?iric*>>ai7aTl)i;r^tctTcrt^ 


^ 


'lvftMat7al<5pauC\iirm  ttic3u>  i- li  in 


Facsimile  of  the  "Cuckoo  Song 


Fjvw  the  original  MS.  in  the  British  Muscinu 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     35 


the  burden  and  begins  to  sing  the  first  bar  of  it  as  the  other 
one  enters  upon  the  fifth,  both  continuing  thereafter  to  sing 
straight  on,  repeating  the  pes,  or  burden,  over  and  over  until 
the  end  is  reached,  we  will  have  four  voices  going  harmo- 
niously. But,  again,  if,  when  the  upper  voice.  Jack,  has 
reached  his  ninth  bar  and  Will  his  fifth  bar,  still  another 
singer  —  we  will  say  Dick  —  commences  the  first  bar  of 
the  same  melody  with  Jack  and  Will,  and  then  sings 
straight  on,  it  will  harmonise ;  and  again,  if  a  sixth  singer 
—  whom  we  must  call  Harry  —  commences  the  same 
melody  at  the  end  of  the  next  four  bars  —  that  is,  when 
Jack  is  beginning  his  thirteenth  bar  —  and  sings  on,  we 
will  have  six  voices  going  in  a  true  six-part  song.  This 
is,  in  point  of  fact,  the  plan  of  the  Cuckoo  Song ;  it  was 
written  for  six  voices.     The  whole  melody  is  as  follows  : 


i 


^ 


f- 


-^•-. 


l^ 


\  Sum  -  er      is        y..  cum  -  en      in..    Lhud  -  e     sing    cue  -  cu 


:^ 


Grow-eth    sed    and  blow  -  eth  med    and  spring-th  th'  und  -  e       nu 


£ 


'&- 


4- 


Sing 


cue 


cu 


4^ 


^^==t 


:t 


-7^ 


Here  you  have  a  general  illustration  of  contrapuntal 
treatment.  This  particular  method  was  called  "  canon  in 
the  unison  with  a  burden";  and  you  can  easily  see  how 
many  varieties  there  might  be,  giving  rise  to  the  motett, 


26     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

the  fugue,  the  round,  and  others  which  it  would  be  too 
technical  to  specify  here.  There  were  also  methods  of  vary- 
ing the  melody  itself;  one  of  these  was  called  "  prolation," 
where  the  notes  were  extended  to  twice  or  more  times  their 
original  length  ;  another  method,  the  opposite  of  prolation, 
was  "division,"  where  each  note,  instead  of  being  length- 
ened, was  divided  into  two  or  more  parts,  this  being  the 
method  indicated  in  the  quotation  from  i  Henry  IV, 
given  in  my  last  lecture,  which  speaks  of  a  tune 

Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer's  bower. 
With  ravishing  division,  to  her  lute. 

If  these  discants  and  variations  were  extempore — that 
is,  if  the  Collier  should  sit  down  and  buff  his  turn,  and 
Will  and  Jack  should  strike  in  with  extemporised  parts  to 
harmonise  with  it  —  it  was  called  "  extempore  discant "; 
if  there  were  written  parts,  it  was  called  "  pricksong  "  — 
that  is,  song  pricked  or  dotted  with  points  on  the  paper. 
This  description  of  discant  carries  us  to  the  original  of  the 
word  counterpoint :  the  melody  being  dotted  down  in  points 
on  the  paper,  when  one  part  ran  along  counter  with  the 
other,  as  in  the  quiddling  of  Jack  and  Will  and  the  Col- 
lier, the  points  or  notes  would  of  course  be  counter,  and 
the  system  of  part-music  thus  began  to  be  called  counter- 
point. The  method  of  discant  is  vividly  implied  in  two 
terms  which  were  much  in  use  at  this  time,  and  which 
survive  to  this  day  in  certain  connections.  The  melody, 
or  tune,  which  was  usually  put  in  the  tenor  as  the  basis  of 
one  of  these  quiddling  compositions,  was  simple,  and  came 
to  be  called  "plain  song"  or  "plain  chant,"  in  opposition 
to  the  complex  contrapuntal  parts  moving  along  with  it; 
and  this  general  name  shows  the  connection  between  the 
Gregorian  melodies  and  the  subjects  of  such  compositions, 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     37 

the  term  now  used  in  the  Catholic  Church  for  the  Gre- 
gorian service  and  melodies  being  "  plain  chant."  The 
simple  melody  is  also  still  called  in  contrapuntal  science 
cantus  firmus  or  canto  fer mo ^ — i.e.,  the  firm  song, —  in  dis- 
tinction from  the  changing  counterpoint  built  upon  it. 

Of  the  rage  among  musicians  in  the  sixteenth  century- 
after  this  part-music,  and  of  the  extent  to  which  it  was  cul- 
tivated,—  particularly  in  church  compositions, —  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  give  you  an  adequate  idea.  Perhaps  a  story  which 
is  told  of  Dr.  John  Bull,  a  celebrated  Enghsh  musician 
of  this  period,  will  sufficiently  illustrate  it.  It  was  said 
that  Dr.  Bull,  after  having  attained  great  eminence  in 
counterpoint,  went  travelling  on  the  Continent  to  see  if  he 
could  learn  something  new  in  the  art.  In  this  course, 
without  revealing  his  name,  he  engaged  himself  as  a  pupil 
to  the  organist  of  St.  Omer's.  One  day  this  musician  took 
his  supposed  pupil  into  a  room  connected  with  the  cathe- 
dral and  showed  him  a  composition  written  in  forty  parts, 
boasting  that  he  had  exhausted  the  resources  of  counter- 
point, and  that  the  man  did  not  live  who  could  add  another 
part  to  the  piece.  The  pretended  pupil  asked  for  pens, 
ink  and  music-paper,  and  requested  to  be  left  alone  in  the 
room  for  an  hour  or  two.  After  a  while  he  called  in  the 
musician  and  showed  him  his  piece  with  not  only  one  new 
part,  but  forty  new  parts,  added.  The  musician  at  first 
would  not  believe  it  ;  but  upon  trying  them  over  several 
times,  and  finding  them  correct  beyond  doubt,  suddenly 
exclaimed,  "  You  must  be  either  the  devil  or  Dr.  Bull," 
and  —  the  narration  quaintly  adds  —  he  thereupon  fell  at 
the  doctor's  feet  and  "  adored  him."  Of  course  a  piece 
with  eighty  different  parts  is  absurdly  impossible,  and  I 
have  related  this  story  simply  to  show  the  wild  excesses 
of  counterpoint  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

These  excesses,  indeed,  did  not  fail  to  meet  with  ob- 


38     SHAKSPERE  "AND    HIS   FORERUNNERS 

jection  at  that  time.  In  the  Protestation  of  the  Clargie 
of  the  Lower  House,  presented  to  Henry  VIII  in  1536, 
seventy-eight  Fautes  and  Abuses  of  Religion  are  enume- 
rated, one  of  which  is  that  "  Synging  and  saying  of  mass, 
matins  or  even  song  is  but  ravyng,  howlyng,  whistelyng, 
murmuryng,  conjuryng  and  jogelyng,  and  the  playing  on 
the  organys  a  foolish  vanitie."  Later,  in  Elizabeth's 
reign,  many  were  greatly  scandalised  at  what  they  called 
"  figurate  and  operose  "  music.  Loud  outcries  were  made 
against  "  curious  singing,"  as  they  stigmatised  it,  and  the 
"  tossing  the  psalms  from  side  to  side."  You  can  easily 
see  that  in  this  system  of  counterpoint  run  mad  the  words 
must  suffer  ;  in  fact,  the  words  of  the  discant  become  a 
mere  "  pretence  for  singing,"  as  Dr.  Burney  has  ingeni- 
ously called  them.^  Of  course  this  music  was  not  easy  to 
sing,  and  in  earlier  times,  when  the  method  of  notation  was 
not  so  clear  as  nowadays,  singers  must  have  had  great 
difficulty  to  puzzle  it  out  from  the  manuscript.  I  have 
found  an  old  poem,  dating  probably  as  far  back  as  the 
fourteenth  century,  which  gives  a  ludicrously  doleful  ac- 
count of  the  woes  of  a  musical  pupil. 

Uncomly  in  cloystre,  in  coure  ful  of  care, 

I  loke  as  a  burdeyne,  and  listne  till  my  lare ; 

The  song  of  the  Ce  sol  fa  does  me  syken  sare, 

And  sitte  statiand  on  a  song  a  moneeth  or  mare.   .   .   . 

I  herle  at  the  notes,  and  heve  hem  al  of  herre  : 

Alle  that  me  heres,  weres  that  I  erre  ; 

Of  efFanz  and  elami,  ne  could  I  never  are; 

I  fayle  fast  in  the  fa,  it  files  al  my  fare. 

Yet  there  ben  other  notes,  sol  and  ut  and  la, 

And  that  froward  file,  that  men  clepis  fa ; 

1  For  instance,  in  one  of  Taverner's     pare  also  the  words  of  John  Mil- 
canons  the  nos    (of  nostrani)  occu-     ton's  song, 
pies  16^  bars  in  slow  timej  com- 


THE    MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     39 

Often  he  does  me  liken  ille,  and  werkes  me  ful  wa. 
Might  I  him  never  hitten  in  ton  for  to  ta.   .   .   . 
Qiian  ilke  note  til  other  lepes,  and  makes  him  a-sawt, 
That  we  calls  a  moyson  in  ge  solventz  en  hawt ; 
II  hayl  were  thu  boren  —  gif  thu  make  defawt, 
Thanne  sais  oure  mayster,  "  que  was  ren  ne  vawt." 

Insomuch  as  these  songs  were  much  sung  by  children 
in  the  great  churches  in  Elizabeth's  reign,  one  trembles  to 
think  of  the  drilling  which  the  poor  little  wretches  must 
have  had  to  undergo. 

The  following  doleful  complaint  (Bright  MS.,  Trans- 
actions of  the  Shakspere  Society  for  18^8)  is  most  ex- 
pressive : 

Of  all  the  creatures,  lesse  or  moe, 
We  lytle  poore  boyes  abyde  much  woe. 

,  We  have  a  cursyd  master,  I  tell  you  all  for  trew ; 
So  cruell  as  he  is  was  never  Turk  or  Jue. 
He  is  the  most  unhappiest  man  that  ever  ye  knewe. 
For  to  poor  syllye  boyes  he  workyth  much  woe.  .  .   . 

He'plokth  us  by  the  nose,  he  plucth  us  by  the  hawes, 
He  plucth  us  by  the  eares  wyth  his  most  unhapye  pawes, 
And  all  for  this  pevysh  pryk  song,  not  worth  to  strawes. 
That  we  poore  sylye  boyes  abyde  much  woe  !  1  .   .   . 

There  is,  indeed,  a  circumstance  connected  herewith 
which  makes  one  tremble  still  more,  and  quite  reconciles 
one  to  the  nineteenth  century,  with  all  its  faults.  I  mean 
the  custom  in  Elizabeth's  time  of  actually  impressing 
children  and  carrying  them  off  from  their  homes  for  ser- 
vice  in   the    cathedral    choirs.     A   royal   writ   signed   by 

1  See  also   the  interesting  song  Long   have  I  been  a  singing  man,  in  the 
same  volume  of  the  Shakspere  Society's  transactions. 


40     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Elizabeth  is  preserved  which  runs  thus  :  "  Wee  therefore 
by  the  tenour  of  these  presents  will  and  require  that  ye 
permit  and  suffer.  .  .  our  said  servants  Thos.  Gyles  and  his 
deputie  or  deputies  to  take  up  in  any  cathedral  or  colle- 
giate churches  and  in  every  other  place  ...  of  this  our 
realm  of  England  and  Wales  suche  child  or  children  as  he 
or  they  shall  finde  and  like  of,  and  the  same  child  .  .  .  for 
the  use  and  service  aforesaid  with  them  ...  to  bring 
awaye  without  anye  your  lette,  contradictions,  staye,  or 
interruption  to  the  contrarie "  ;  and  another  section  of 
this  dreadful  instrument  charges  every  one  to  help  these 
officers  in  performing  their  unnatural  duty. 

It  would  be  peculiarly  appropriate  to  the  present  lec- 
ture if  I  could  enlarge  upon  the  circumstance  that  it  was 
about  the  middle  of  the  period  we  are  now  discussing 
that  many  matters  of  church  music  settled  themselves 
which  form  nowadays  an  intimate  part  of  our  life.  In 
1550  Marbeck  published  the  Book  of  Common  Praier 
Notes^  which  was  a  notation  of  the  Episcopal  Church 
service  in  form  substantially  as  we  now  know  it.  At  this 
time  too  began  those  translations  of  the  Psalms  which,  in 
better  form,  we  are  accustomed  to  sing.  Following  the 
lead  of  Clement  Marot  in  France,  Sternhold  and  Hop- 
kins versified  the  Psalms ;  they  were  then  set  to  tunes, 
and  in  the  year  1577  began  to  be  published  with  the 
Book  of  Common  Prayer.  You  are  doubtless  all  familiar 
with  the  droning  dismalness  of  these  verses  of  Sternhold 
and  Hopkins.  Perhaps  you  are  not  so  familiar  with  a 
versification  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  which  was  begun 
about  this  same  time  by  Dr.  Christopher  Tye,  who  was 
one  of  the  great  musicians  of  Elizabeth's  time. 

Here  are  two  stanzas  from  Dr.  Tye's  version  of  the 
fourteenth  chapter  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  where, 
luckily,  he  stopped  : 


wrjif 


Clement  Marot 
From  an  old  t'liQivTiiii, 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     41 

It  chanced  in  Iconium, 
As  they  ofttimes  dyd  use, 
Together  they  into  dyd  cum 
The  sinagoge  of  Jues. 

Where  they  dyd  preche  and  onely  seke 

God's  grace  then  to  atcheve, 

That  they  so  spake  to  Jue  and  Greke 

That  many  dyd  beleve, 

That  many  dyd  beleve. 

The  music  to  which  Dr.  Tye  set  these  verses  was  not 
unHke  them  to  a  modern  ear.  In  fact,  to  the  contempo- 
rary ear  his  compositions  do  not  seem  always  to  have 
been  agreeable ;  for  I  find  it  related  of  him  that  some- 
times when  he  was  exploiting  his  counterpoint  on  the 
organ  in  the  chapel  of  Queen  Elizabeth  he  played  pieces 
which  contained  —  as  old  Anthony  a- Wood  says  —  "  much 
music^  but  little  delight  to  the  ear,"  and  when  thereupon 
the  Queen  sent  "  the  verger  to  tell  him  that  he  played  out 
of  tune,  he  sent  word  that  her  ears  were  out  of  tune." 

Much  of  the  psalmody  of  the  Protestant  churches 
was  also  brought  into  form  and  collected  at  this  time. 
Marot  in  France  had  partly  versified  the  Psalms ;  this 
version  was  completed  by  Theodore  Beza,  and  Calvin 
caused  it  to  be  set  to  easy  tunes  and  published  with  the 
Genevan  catechism,  for  the  purpose  of  being  sung  in  the 
churches.  Many  of  these  "  easy  tunes  "  are  still  found  in 
the  hymn-books  of  the  present  day,  under  one  and  an- 
other name.  They  are  sometimes  noble  melodies,  and 
we  should  associate  with  them  the  names  of  some  com- 
posers who  either  wrote  them  or  rescued  them  from 
oblivion,  particularly  Claude  Gondimel,  Louis  Bourgeois, 
Guillaume  Franc,  and  Claude  Lejeune.  It  must  be  said, 
however,  that  the  psalm-tunes  which  were  sung  in  Shak- 


42    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

spere's  time  were  not  always  strictly  orthodox  in  their 
origin,  as  indeed  some  of  the  masses  written  abroad  were 
said  to  be  founded  upon  tunes  which  were  very  "  secu- 
lar." Many  good  souls  were  scandalised  at  hearing  sacred 
words  set  to  melodies  which  appeared  originally  in  con- 
nection with  very  profane  verses.  In  fact,  I  should  judge 
this  had  become  a  common  joke  on  the  Puritans,  from  a 
remark  made  by  the  Clown  in  Shakspere's  Winter  s  Tale. 
You  will  remember  I  cited  a  part  of  the  Clown's  speech 
in  Act  IV,  Scene  II  of  this  play  in  my  last  lecture  for 
another  purpose  —  to  prove  that  the  four-and-twenty 
sheep-shearers  were  all  able  to  sing  in  part-songs.  The 
Clown  says  the  four-and-twenty  sheep-shearers  are  "  three- 
man  song-men  all,  and  very  good  ones ;  but  they  are 
most  of  them  means  and  bases ;  but  one  puritan  among 
theniy  and  he  sings  psalms  to  hornpipes^ 

Perhaps  the  sturdy  Puritans  were  only  carrying  out 
the  doctrine  attributed  to  Luther,  who  was  in  favour  of 
impressing  these  secular  melodies  into  the  church  service 
upon  the  principle  that  he  saw  no  reason  why  the  devil 
should  have  all  the  good  tunes. 

I  find,  however,  another  allusion  in  Shakspere  that 
brings  vividly  before  us  a  noble  old  psalm-tune  of  his 
time  which  is  very  familiar  to  all  our  modern  ears.  In 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor^  Act  II,  Scene  I,  where  Mistress 
Page  is  discussing  Jack  Falstaff's  letter  with  her  sparkling 
gossip  Mrs.  Ford,  the  latter  lady  says :  "  I  would  have  sworn 
his  disposition  would  have  gone  to  the  truth  of  his  words ; 
but  they  do  no  more  adhere  and  keep  place  together  than 
the  Hundredth  Psalm  to  the  tune  of  Green  Sleeves."  The 
tune  of  this  Hundredth  Psalm  was  that  majestic  melody 
which  we  all  now  associate  with  the  Doxology,  "  Praise 
God  from  Whom  all  Blessings  Flow,"  and  it  would 
seem,  from   Mistress   Ford's  use   of  it,  to   have  been  as 


/ 


Theodore  Beza 


THE    MUSIC   OF   SHAKSPERE'S    TIME     43 

strongly  placed  in  the  popular  esteem  in  the  sixteenth 
century  as  in  the  nineteenth.  I  find  it  associated  with  the 
name  of  Claude  Lejeune  in  the  early  collections,  but  only 
as  arranger,  not  as  author. 

I  must  not  leave  the  subject  of  the  religious  music  of 
this  time  without  at  least  mentioning  the  names  of  Thomas 
Tallis,  Orlando  Gibbons,  and  William  Bird,  who,  along 
with  Dr.  John  Bull  and  Christopher  Tye,  cultivated  the 
art  with  great  learning  and  devotion  during  this  period. 

In  coming  now  to  speak  of  the  secular  music  of 
Shakspere's  time,  we  find  the  madrigal,  the  catch,  and 
the  ballad  standing  out  as  the  most  prominent  vocal 
forms  of  it,  and  I  must  hasten  to  illustrate  these. 

To  begin  with  the  madrigal,  nothing  seems  more 
difficult  than  to  settle  the  etymology  of  the  name.  One 
writer  has  derived  it  from  the  Italian  mandra^  a  sheep- 
fold,  because  it  was  usually  set  to  words  of  a  pastoral 
nature  \  but  this  flouts  all  principles  of  etymology  and 
seems  absurd.  Another,  with  as  little  reason,  has  derived 
it  from  the  name  of  a  town  in  Portugal.  The  original 
madrigal  seems  to  have  been  a  song  of  the  same  nature 
with  the  villanella,  or  country-song ;  it  was  usually 
built  upon  a  proverb  or  common  saying.  And  this  sug- 
gests to  my  mind  the  most  natural  derivation  of  the  word, 
—  from  madre^  Spanish  for  mother, —  upon  the  idea  of 
the  madrigal  being  at  first  a  mother-song,  or  nursery- 
song,  just  as  you  will  presently  see  the  songs  of  our  own 
Mother  Goose  appearing  as  the  words  of  popular  catches 
in  Shakspere's  time.  Whatever  be  the  derivation  of  the 
word,  the  madrigal  was  the  most  popular  form  of  serious 
secular  music  in  Shakspere's  time,  and  somehow  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  the  genius  of  our  Elizabethan  musical  com- 
posers ran  this  way  with  a  special  leaning  ;  for  of  all  the 
compositions  of  that  time  the  madrigals  seem  more  inter- 


44    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

esting  to  a  modern  ear  than  any  others  I  have  seen.  The 
structure  of  the  madrigal  was  peculiar.  After  what  was 
said  of  the  Cuckoo  Song, — which  is  a  canon  in  the  uni- 
son, with  the  addition  of  a  pes,  or  burden, —  you  will 
easily  understand  from  a  slight  illustration  how  the  mad- 
rigal differed  from  it.  Here  are  the  opening  phrases  of  a 
beautiful  madrigal  by  Thomas  Weelkes,  dating  from  1597. 
It  was  written  to  that  quaint-measured  poem  attributed  to 
Shakspere,  in  the  Passionate  Pilgrim,  which  you  will  all 
remember  from  the  first  lines  : 


My  flocks  feed  not, 
My  ewes  breed  not, 
My  rams  speed  not. 

All  is  amisse. 
Love  is  dying. 
Faith's  defying. 
Heart's  denying, 

Causer  of  this. 


-r^-f 


-<9- 


■a- 


'f9- 


j2- 


3:- 


-*-t 


x=x 


-<s*- 


--t- 


--^- 


-&- 


■m^ 


-G- 


-^-— 


-.x~ 


-5^- 


^^ 


Where,  you  observe,  we  have  not  a  canon  in  the  uni- 
son, as  in  the  Cuckoo  Song, —  that  is,  one  voice  singing 
exactly  the  same  notes  as  the  other,  at  definite  intervals 
of  rest, —  but  a  partial  canon  of  a  different  sort ;  the 
second  voice,  you  see,  sings  the  same  melody  with  the 
first  two  bars,  but  in  a  different  key,  and  then  passes  off 
into  a  new  phrase  of  its  own,  making  a  kind  of  echo,  or 
report,  of  the  first  voice ;  again  the  third  voice  comes  in 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     45 

here  with  the  same  melody  of  the  first  two  bars  of  the 
first  voice,  only  this  time  neither  in  unison  nor  in  a  dif- 
ferent key,  but  in  the  octave  below  —  thus  making  a 
different  kind  of  echo,  or  report,  from  the  other  two  voices. 
And  so  it  runs  on  throughout  the  madrigal,  a  little  phrase 
cunningly  reappearing  in  some  new  form  from  each  voice 
here  and  there,  like  birds  answering  each  other  in  a  wood. 
In  fact,  Samuel  Daniel,  in  a  song  in  one  of  his  plays 
which  I  quoted  to  you  in  another  lecture,  has  beautifully 
applied  the  word  "report"  —  which  was  a  technical  term 
to  denote  this  answering  and  echoing  of  voices  in  a  mad- 
rigal —  to  the  pipings  of  birds  in  a  wood : 

One  bird  reports  unto  another 
In  the  fall  of  silver  showers. 

The  first  English  madrigals  appear  to  have  been  written 
by  the  William  Bird  whom  I  mentioned  just  now.  For- 
eign madrigals,  set  to  Italian  words,  had  appeared  before, 
and  it  seemed  to  be  doubted  for  a  time  whether  English 
words  would  go  to  madrigals  ;  but  this  doubt  was  soon 
solved  by  the  appearance  of  successful  madrigals  written 
to  English  translations  of  Italian  poems,  and  then  to 
original  English  poems.  They  now  began  to  multiply 
very  rapidly.  Perhaps  the  most  notable  collection  of 
them  was  a  volume  of  madrigals,  all  in  honour  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  published  at  London  in  1601,  with  the  title  of 
The  Triumphs  of  Oriana.  Under  the  pseudonym  of  Ori- 
ana,  which  is  the  name  of  the  heroine  in  the  famous  old 
romance  of  Amadis  de  Gaul^  Elizabeth  was  celebrated  in  a 
thousand  devices  of  melodious  flattery.  Indeed,  the  book 
is  said  to  have  been  a  happy  thought  of  some  one  about 
the  Queen,  who  caused  it  to  be  gotten  up  to  divert  her 
mind  after  the  sorrowful  death  of  Essex.     It  will  serve  to 


46  SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

place  before  your  eyes  at  one  view  the  most  noted  writers 
of  madrigals  in  Shakspere's  time  if  I  write  the  names  of 
the  composers  who  contributed  to  The  Triumphs  of  Oriana, 
These  were  Michael  Este,  Daniel  Norcom,  Mundy,  Gib- 
bons, Bennet,  Hilton,  Marston,  Carleton,  Holmes,  Nich- 
olson, Tomkins,  Cavendish,  Cobbold,  Morley,  Farmer, 
Wilbye,  Hunt,  Weelkes,  Milton,  Kirbye,  Jones,  Lisley, 
and  Johnson.  Of  these  composers  Thomas  Weelkes  and 
John  Wilbye  are  particularly  celebrated  as  madrigal- 
makers/ 

No  one  can  speak  of  the  word  madrigal  without  think- 
ing of  the  exquisite  use  which  Marlowe  has  made  of  it  in 
his  world-famous  song.  Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 
In  the  play  I  just  now  quoted,  this  song  is  comically  men- 
tioned by  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  the  Welsh  parson,  where  he 
comes  with  Simple,  looking  for  "  Master  Caius,"  in  the 
first  scene  of  the  third  act.  "  Pless  my  soul !  "  cries  the 
Welshman,  "  how  full  of  cholers  I  am,  and  trembling  of 
mind  !  "  and  then,  to  calm  himself,  he  sings  a  verse  of 
Marlowe's  song : 

By  shallow  rivers  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  make  madrigals,  etc. 

Of  the  lighter  kinds  of  secular  music,  the  catch  was  the 
most  popular,  and  we  find  many  allusions  to  it  in  Shak- 
spere's plays.  I  briefly  explained  in  my  last  lecture  that 
in  the  catch  proper  there  was  some  trick  or  catch  in  the 
words,  as  in  that  famous  one  of  Calcott's  where  the  first 
voice  sings  "  Ah,  how  Sophia,"  and  the  next  catches  this 
with  the  phrase  "  A  house  afire  "  ;  which  in  the  rapid  pro- 

1  It  is,  by  the  way,  a  minute  con-  Fidessa,  beginning  with 

tribution     to     the    little    we     know  So  soone  as  peeping  Lucifer,  Aurora's  starre, 

of    Bartholomew  Griffin    that    the  appear  in  one  of  these  collections, 

last   six    lines    of    his     sonnet     to  set  to  music  by  John  Farmer. 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     47 

nunciation  of  that  time  would  sound  much  Hke  "  Ah,  how 
Sophia."  The  round,  however,  is  often  confounded  with  j 
the  catch ;  musically  they  do  not  differ,  both  the  round 
and  the  catch  being  varieties  of  the  canon  in  the  unison 
illustrated  by  the  upper  parts  of  the  Cuckoo  Song.  You 
are  all  probably  familiar  with  the  round  ;  when  I  was  a 
boy  we  used  to  sing  a  very  familiar  one  which  began, 
"  Scotland's  burning,  Scotland's  burning,  fire,  fire,  fire, 
fire,  cast  on  water,  cast  on  water,"  etc.  It  is  interesting 
to  find  among  the  rounds  and  catches  of  Shakspere's  time 
some  early  forms  of  the  nursery-rimes  which  appear  in 
our  Mother  Goose.  For  example,  in  Act  IV,  Scene  I,  of 
Taming  qfj]j£_Khr£W^  where  Grumio  has  been  sent  ahead 
to  Petruchio's  country  house  to  make  a  fire  before  he  and 
his  bride  arrive,  presently  Petruchio's  other  servant,  Cur- 
tis, comes  in,  and,  the  fire  being  built,  calls  out  to  Grumio, 
"  There's  fire  ready ;  and  therefore,  good  Grumio,  the 
news."  ^ 

"  Why,"  says  Grumio,  "  Jack^  hoy  !  ho  !  boy  !  and  as 
much  news  as  thou  wilt."  This  Jack^  boy  !  ho  !  boy  !  is 
unintelligible  until  you  know  that  these  are  the  first  words 
of  a  popular  catch  in  Shakspere's  time  which  ran  as  follows  : 

Jack,  boy,  ho,  boy, —  news  ! 
The  cat  is  in  the  well. 
Let  us  ring  now  for  her  knell. 
Ding,  ding,  dong,  bell. 

In   which    you    recognise    the    rime    of    Mother   Goose 

which  runs : 

Ding,  dong,  bell ; 

The  cat's  in  the  well ; 

Who  put  her  in  ? 

Little  Johnny  Green. 

Who  pulled  her  out  ? 

Little  Johnny  Stout. 


48     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

It  is  rather  a  curious  coincidence  that  when  I  had  written 
thus  far  in  my  lecture  the  other  day  I  happened  to  turn 
to  this  scene  between  Grumio  and  Curtis  in  Taming  of  the 
Shrew  for  another  purpose,  when  I  came  upon  an  allusion 
I  had  never  before  observed,  to  the  very  round  which  I 
had  just  mentioned  as  being  commonly  sung  in  my  boy- 
hood, the  "  Scotland's  burning,  fire,  fire,  cast  on  water," 
etc.  A  few  lines  before  Grumio  flouts  Curtis  with  his 
Jack,  boy  !  ho  !  boy  !  Grumio,  half  frozen  by  the  cold,  is 
alone,  trying  to  get  a  fire  which  he  has  to  see  started  before 
his  master  Petruchio  arrives  with  the  bride.  As  he  is 
shouting  forth  his  complaints  of  the  cold,  Curtis,  his  fel- 
low-servant, enters  with  the  exclamation,  "  Who  is  that 
calls  so  coldly  ?  " 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice  :  if  thou  doubt  it,  thou  mayst  slide  from 
my  shoulder  to  my  heel  with  no  greater  a  run  but  my  head  and 
my  neck.     A  fire,  good  Curtis. 

Curt.      Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming,  Grumio  ? 

Gru.  O,  ay,  Curtis,  ay :  and  therefore  fire,  fire ;  cast  on  no 
water. 

T\{\s  fire,  fire ;  cast  on  no  water,  is  evidently  a  phrase  out 
of  the  round,  Scotland's  burning. 

Two  notable  collections  of  catches  of  this  period  were 
called,  one  Pammelia  ^ —  which  is  Greek  for  All  the  Melo- 
dies—  and  another  Deuteromelia,  or  Second  Melodies,  being 
a  sort  of  second  part  to  Pammelia.  The  words  to  these 
catches  consist  of  all  manner  of  sense  and  nonsense.     For 

1  Pammelia     (Pan-melia)  :     •'  Mu-  acceptable.       London  :   printed  by 

sick's  Miscellanie,  or  mixed  vari-  William  Barley  for  R.  B.  and  H. 

eties    of  pleasant    Roundelays    and  W.,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  Spread 

delightful  Catches  of  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  Eagle  at  the  great  north  door  of  St. 

8,  9,    10   parts  in  one.      None  so  Paul's,  1609.   To  the  well-disposed 

ordinary  as  musical,  none  so  musi-  to  read,  and  to  the  merry-disposed 

cal  as  not  to  all  very  pleasing  and  to  sing." 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     49 

instance,  one  —  and  a  rather  ghastly  one  which  I  doubt 
not  ladies  will  place  in  the  category  of  nonsense  —  was  in 
the  nature  of  an  epitaph  and  expressed  the  following  atro- 
cious sentiments : 

Here  lies  a  woman,  who  can  deny  it : 

She  died  in  peace  tho'  she  lived  unquiet ; 

Her  husband  prays,  if  o'er  her  grave  you  walk. 

You  would  tread  soft, —  for  if  she  wake,  she'll  talk. 

Another,  which  contained  some  good  sonorous  vowels  for 
roaring,  was  this  ; 

Nose,  nose,  nose,  nose, 
Who  gave  thee  that  jolly  red  nose  ? 
Sinamont  and  ginger,  nutmegs  and  cloves. 
And  that  gave  me  my  jolly  red  nose. 

Which  f  ecalls  that  famous  song,  in  the  nature  of  a  catch, 
sung  by  lago  in  Othello^  Act  III,  Scene  III : 

Then  let  me  the  canakin  clink,  clink ; 
And  let  me  the  canakin  clink  : 

A  soldier's  a  man  ; 

And  life's  but  a  span  ; 
Why  then  let  a  soldier  drink.^ 

Another  catch,  or  round,  which  might  go  well  enough 
with  this  was  to  these  words : 

O  metaphysical  Tobacco ! 
Fetched  as  far  as  from  Morocco : 

Thy  searching  fume 

Exhales  the  rheum, 
O  metaphysical  Tobacco  ! 

We  find    the    name    of  "  John    Cooke "    appearing    in 


so  SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

more  than  one  round ;  as,  for  example,  in  this  one  from 
the  Deutero7nelia  collection  : 

I.  C.  U.  B.  A.  K.  (-nave) 
And  evermore  will  be  : 
Though  John  Cooke  he  says  nay, 
O  what  a  Knave  is  he. 

The  true  nature  of  the  catch  as  distinguished  from  the 
round  in  general  is  very  well  indicated  by  a  couplet  quoted 
in  the  preface  to  Pammelia  : 

Mirth  and  music  to  the  cunning  catcher  [i.e.,  catch-singer] , 
Derth  and  physic  to  the  coney-catcher  — 

where,  besides  the  quaint  rhymes  of  mirth  and  music  to 
derth  and  physic^  the  catch  lies  in  the  assimilation  o^  coney- 
catcher  to  cunning  catcher  in  rapid  utterance.  This  preface 
further  affords  a  specimen  of  catch-translation  in  interpret- 
ing the  Latin,  qui  canere  potest^  canat  (i.e.,  whoever  can 
sing,  let  him  sing)  by  catch  that  catch  can^  as  who  should 
say,  whoever  can  sing,  let  him  sing  catches.  This  Catch 
that  Catch  Can  was  the  title  of  a  collection  of  catches  pub- 
lished by  John  Hilton  in  1562. 

I  must  leave  the  subject  of  ballads — which  were 
spelled  "  ballets  "  in  this  time,  or  fa-las,  as  they  were 
often  called — in  order  to  say  something,  if  only  of  the 
briefest,  about  the  instrumental  music  of  Shakspere's  time. 
It  is  proper,  before  quite  abandoning  the  subject  of  vocal 
music,  to  mention  that  a  favourite  mode  of  it  in  Shakspere's 
time  —  and  a  curious  one  to  us,  I  fancy  —  was  that  of 
musical  declamation  accompanied  by  an  instrument. 
This  was  the  recitativo  accompagnato  of  the  Italians,  some- 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S    TIME      51 

times  called  musica  narrativa,  or  music  in  which  a  story 
could  be  told.  Its  introducer  in  England,  and  most  emi- 
nent illustrator,  was  Nicholas  Lanier.  For  example,  a  cele- 
brated masque  was  written  by  Ben  Jonson  and  Nicholas 
Lanier  to  be  performed  in  the  style  of  recitativo  accompa- 
gnato.  Not  only  was  the  music  of  this  masque  written  by 
Lanier,  but  he  performed  the  vocal  part  of  it,  reciting  the 
poem  in  the  musica  narrativa  way,  with  great  effect.  Lanier 
did  not  confine  himself,  however,  to  the  recitative,  but 
wrote  many  other  musical  compositions  which  appear  in 
the  later  collections  of  the  time.  Besides  his  name,  it 
would  not  be  proper  for  me  to  omit  mention  of  those  of 
Cooper  (who  after  a  visit  to  Italy  styled  himself  Coperario) 
and  Ferabasco. 

Secular  instrumental  music  was  usually  one  of  the 
following  three  sorts.  Where  it  was  concerted  for  orches- 
tral instruments,  it  was  often  the  parts  of  part-songs  merely 
played  instead  of  being  sung ;  as  indicated  in  the  title  of 
one  of  William  Bird's  publications,  printed  in  1611: 
Psalms,  Songs,  and  Sonets;  some  solemne,  others  joyfully 
framed  to  the  life  of  the  words,  fit  for  voices  or  viols,  of  i^,a^, 
5,  and  6  parts. 

The  music  for  the  virginals  was  usually  a  melody  of 
some  sort  —  a  dance-tune  or  old  air  —  played  by  one 
hand,  while  the  other  executed  all  manner  of  endless  vari- 
ations upon  it.  Several  of  these  compositions  of  contem- 
porary writers  remain  to  us,  notably  a  collection  of  them 
in  what  is  known  as  ^een  Elizabeth's  Virginal  Book,  and 
they  show  passages  of  such  difficulty  as  must  have  required 
great  technic  for  their  execution  upon  the  instruments  of 
that  time. 

Shakspere's  well-known  sonnet  on  the  virginals  comes 
in  most  appropriately  here  : 


52    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

CXXVIII    '- 
r. 

How  oft  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play'st 
Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  motion  sounds 
With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou  gently  sway'st 
The  wiry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds. 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand. 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest  reap. 
At  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand  ? 
To  be  so  tickled  they  would  change  their  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips 
O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait. 
Making  dead  wood  more  blest  than  living  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this, 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips,  to  kiss. 

A  third  sort  of  instrumental  music  —  and  perhaps  the 
most  highly  esteemed,  as  such  —  is  indicated  in  the  title  of 
a  publication  by  John  Dowland,  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated musicians  of  this  period.  This  was  called  Lachri- 
mae ;  or  Seaven  Teares  figured  in  seaven  passionate  Pavans  ; 
with  divers  other  Pavans^  Galiards,  and  Almands^  set  forth 
for  the  Lute,  Viols,  or  Violins,  in  five  parts.  These  dances, 
the  Pavan,  the  Galliard,  etc.,  are  highly  characteristic  of 
Shakspere's  time,  and  merit  some  description. 

The  Pavan  was  a  slow  dance,  always  in  \  time,  or 
at  any  rate  common  time,  and  was  so  called  from  pavo,  a 
peacock ;  the  significance  of  the  name  being  that  the 
Pavan  was  a  stately  measure,  and  the  spreading  of  the 
long  trains  of  the  ladies,  or  of  the  long  gowns  in  which  it 
was  danced  by  noblemen,  was  like  the  spreading  of  the 
peacock's  tail. 

It  was  customary  after  the  slow  movement  of  the  Pa- 
van to  follow  it  up  with  the  livelier  dance  known  as  the 


Title-page  of  Dowland's  "  First  Booke  of  Songes  " 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     S3 

Galliard.  Selden,  in  his  "Table-talk,"  complains:  "In 
Queen  Elizabeth's  time  gravity  and  state  were  kept  up  ;  at 
a  solemn  dancing,  first  you  had  the  grave  measures  ;  then 
the  corantos  and  Galliards ;  and  at  length  to  Frenchmore 
and  the  cushion-dance."  Here,  you  observe,  the  order  was 
first,  the  Pavan,  a  slow  and  stately  dance,  in  common 
time ;  then  the  Galliard,  a  liveher  dance,  in  ^  (triple) 
time ;  then  the  cushion-dance,  a  still  livelier  measure,  so 
called  from  the  cushion  which  in  one  of  the  figures  had  to 
be  brought  for  the  dancer  to  kneel  on.  It  will  be  in- 
teresting to  musical  people  to  remark  here  that  the 
succession  of  movements  in  a  sonata  is  supposed  to  be 
connected  with  this  practice  of  following  up  a  dance  of 
slow  time  with  one  of  faster  movement,  and  the  like ;  an 
idea  which  receives  support  when  we  think  how  much  of 
the  instrumental  music  of  this  time  consisted  of  these 
dance,  tunes,  or  of  what  were  called  "fantasias"  upon 
them. 

In  the  Galliard,  which  thus  followed  the  Pavan  like  a 
comedy  after  a  tragedy,  the  dancer  would  make  four  steps 
forward,  with  the  right  and  left  foot  alternately,  and  then 
spring  into  the  air.  This  characteristic  caper  of  the  dance 
is  mentioned  by  Shakspere:  in  Act  I,  Scene  III,  o{  Twelfth 
Night,  Sir  Toby  is  unmercifully  quizzing  Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek,  who  has  just  been  bragging  with  his  usual 
stupidity  upon  his  marvellous  strange  delight  in  "  masques 
and  revels."     Says  Sir  Toby  : 

What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard,  knight? 

Sir  And.   Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  Toby.   And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to  't. 

Sir  And.  And  I  think  I  have  the  back-trick  simply  as  strong 
as  any  man  in  lUyria. 

Sir  Toby.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  wherefore  have 
these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them  ?  are  they  like  to  take  dust,  like 


54     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Mistress  Mall's  picture  ?  why  dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a 
galliard  and  come  home  in  a  coranto  ?  .  .  .  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 
Is  it  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in?  I  did  think,  by  the  excellent 
constitution  of  thy  leg,  it  was  formed  under  the  star  of  a 
galliard. 

Sir  John  Davies,  in  his  poem  The  Orchestra^  which  is  a 
charming  description  of  the  dance  in  general  and  of  many 
dances  in  particular,  describes  the  Galliard  as 

A  swift  and  wandering  dance. 
With  passages  uncertain  to  and  fro,  .   .   . 
With  lofty  turns  and  caprioles  in  the  air 
Which  to  the  lusty  tunes  accordeth  fair. 

A  Galliard  by  John  Dowland  called  the  "  Frog  Gal- 
liard"—  I  suppose  from  this  jumping  feature,  or  capriole, 
as  Sir  John  Davies  calls  it  —  became  a  great  favourite  in 
Shakspere's  time,  and  did  duty  not  only  as  a  dance  tune 
but  as  a  song  to  which  words  were  written.  It  was,  in- 
deed, a  common  practice  then  to  adopt  words  to  old  tunes, 
instead  of  writing  music  to  words,  as  is  now  nearly  always 
done.  Butler  speaks  of  the  "  infinite  multitude  of  ballads 
with  country-dances  fitted  into  them." 

This  John  Dowland  whom  I  have  just  mentioned 
is  the  famous  lute-player  referred  to  in  the  sonnet 
printed  as  No.  VI,  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim^  for  Shak- 
spere's : 

If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree, 
As  they  must  needs,  the  sister  and  the  brother. 
Then  must  the  love  be  great  'twixt  thee  and  me, 
Because  thou  lov'st  the  one,  and  I  the  other. 
Dowland  to  thee  is  dear,  whose  heavenly  touch 
Upon  the  lute  doth  ravish  human  sense; 
Spenser  to  me,  whose  deep  conceit  is  such 
As,  passing  all  conceit,  needs  no  defence. 


> 

ns 

Q 
c 
o 


C/D 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME      SS 

Thou  lov'st  to  hear  the  sweet  melodious  sound 

That  Phcebus'  lute,  the  queen  of  music,  makes ; 

And  I  in  deep  delight  am  chiefly  drowned 

Whenas  himself  to  singing  he  betakes. 

One  god  is  god  of  both,  as  poets  feign; 

One  knight  loves  both,  and  both  in  thee  remain. 

A  later  criticism  has  determined  this   sonnet  to   belong, 
not  to  Shakspere,  but  to  Robert  Nicholson. 

Dowland  seems  from  contemporary  accounts  to  have 
been  an  agreeable  player  on  the  lute,  and  his  work  just 
now  mentioned  "  sets  forth  "  the  tunes  in  it  for  the  lute, 
as  well  as  for  viols,  etc.  The  manner  of  writing  music  for 
the  lute  was  peculiar.  The  tuning  of  the  instrument 
{accordatura)  was  as  follows  : 


Base 
C 

Tenor 
F 

• 

Counter-tenor                 Great  Mean 
B  flat                                D 

\ 

Small  Mean 
G 

Minikin,  Treble,  or  Chanterelle 
CC 

Each  string  was  represented  by  a  line  drawn  across  the 
page,  making  a  staff  of  six  lines  ;  and  the  frets  (of  which 
there  were  eight)  were  distinguished  by  letters  a^  b^  r,  etc.; 
so  that  a  letter  a  placed  on  the  upper  line  meant  that  the 
finger  was  to  be  placed  on  that  string  at  the  first  fret;  b  on 
the  next  line  would  mean  place  the  finger  on  the  tenor 
string  at  the  second  fret ;  and  so  on.  This  method  of 
notation  was  called  "  tablature,"  and  music  for  the  lute 
was  spoken  of  as  being  written  "in  tablature." 

Dowland's  pieces,  you  observe,  were  also  arranged  for 
viols.  These  viols,  which  have  since  grown  into  such 
commanding  importance  as  the  very  foundation  of  the 
orchestra,  were  just  then  beginning  their  development  into 
the  noble  instruments  of  modern  times,  though  no  one 


56     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

foresaw  those  marvellous  capacities  upon  the  strings  with 
which  we  are  so  familiar.  It  was  the  fashion  in  Shak- 
spere's  time  for  a  gentleman  to  have  a  "  chest  of  viols," 
^including  instruments  of  various  sizes,  from  the  little  or 
treble  violin  through  the  larger  sizes  to  the  viola  di  gamba 
and  violoncello  or  bass  viol.  The  viola  di  gamba  is  men- 
tioned in  Twelfth  Night  by  our  friend  Sir  Toby,  who  in 
describing  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  to  Maria  tells  her  he 
has  three  thousand  ducats  a  year,  "  plays  o'  the  viol-de- 
gamboys,  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages  word  for  word 
without  book,  and  hath  all  the  good  gifts  of  nature." 
This  viola  di  gamba  was  so  called  from  the  Italian  word 
gamba^  which  you  recognise  as  the  same  with  the  French 
jambe^  leg ;  and  was  so  called  because  it  was  held  between 
the  knees  in  playing. 

In  these  arrangements  of  Dowland's  for  viols  we 
begin  to  see  the  faint  foreshadowing  of  that  enormous 
development  of  concerted  instrumental  music  which  has 
resulted  in  the  grand  orchestra  of  modern  times  and  the 
stupendous  works  of  Haydn  and  Beethoven  and  Wagner. 
There  were  in  those  days  what  were  called  "  consorts  "  of 
music ;  but  aside  from  these  concerted  pieces  such  as 
Dowland's  for  viols,  and  others  where  the  parts  of  part- 
songs  were  played  instead  of  being  sung,  the  main  Idea  in 
assembling  instruments  seems  to  have  been  simply  to 
make  that  "  loud  noise  "  which  has  been  associated  with 
joy  and  festivity  since,  and  indeed  before,  the  Psalmist.  I 
find  that  Queen  Elizabeth  had  in  her  pay  a  number  of 
musicians  playing  different  instruments  ;  and  perhaps  I 
cannot  better  sum  up  the  bare  outline  of  instrumental 
music  in  Shakspere's  time,  which  I  have  tried  to  eke  out 
here  and  there  in  these  two  lectures,  than  by  giving  the 
list  of  her  musicians  as  they  appear  upon  the  royal  pay-roll 
which  has  been  preserved.     There  were  then  :   i6  Trum- 


THE    MUSIC    OF    SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     57 

peters,  2  Luters,  1  Harpers,  1  Singers,  i  Rebeck-player, 
6  Sackbuts  [the  sackbut  was  a  wind  instrument  with  a 
slide,  the  progenitor  of  the  modern  trombone],  8  "Vyalls," 
I  Bagpipe,  9  "  Minstrilles,"  3  Dromslades,  2  Flute-play- 
ers, 2  Players  on  the  Virginals. 

Three  other  sorts  of  dances  I  cannot  omit  to  mention, 
though  in  the  briefest  way.  These  were  the  Coranto,  or 
current-traverse,  which  seems  to  have  been  an  Italian  form 
of  country-dance,  somewhat  like  what  we  call  the  reel, 
where  two  lines  are  formed  and  dancers  advance  from  the 
ends  to  meet  and  execute  various  figures  in  the  middle ; 
the  Paspy  (i.e.,  passepied^  or  pass-foot)  or  Passamezzo, 
which  seems  to  have  been  a  sort  of  rapid  minuet ;  and  the 
Morris-dance,  which  is  commonly  (though,  I  think,  on 
doubtful  grounds)  supposed  to  be  Moorish-dance,  and  to 
have  been  brought  from  Spain.  Laneham,  a  writer  who 
gives  us  some  minute  descriptions  of  matters  in  the  per- 
sonal^ household  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  writing  in  1590, 
mentions  a  "  lively  Moris-dauns  according  to  the  auncient 
manner  ;  six  dauncers,  Mawd-Marion  and  the  fool."  It 
seems  from  other  authorities  that  the  Morris-dancers  fol- 
lowed a  leader,  guiding  their  movements  by  his,  somewhat 
as  in  the  modern  german. 

In  my  first  lecture  on  this  subject  I  gave  you  several 
citations  from  Shakspere's  plays  to  show  how  he  not  only 
loved  music  with  sincere  passion,  but  how  often  he  wrote 
passages  which  indicate  gleams  of  insight  into  its  mysteries. 
I  cannot  better  close  this  account  of  music  in  Shakspere's 
time  than  by  reading  a  sonnet  in  which  he  sends  a  keen 
shaft  of  inquiry  into  a  mysterious  matter  lying  deep  in 
music  as  in  all  art.  You  remember  Jessica's  saying,  which 
I  read :  "  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music." 

This  sonnet  advances  a  little  farther  and  moots  the 
question,  Why  is  it,  if  music  makes  us  sad,  that  we  culti- 


58     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

vate  it  ?  Perhaps  it  has  occurred  to  all  of  you  to  ask  your- 
selves why  you  should  go  eagerly  to  see  a  tragedy  on  the 
stage  which  harrows  up  your  feelings,  in  apparent  opposi- 
tion to  those  first  principles  of  ordinary  existence  which 
lead  us  to  avoid  —  instead  of  seeking  —  that  which  gives 
us  pain.  Shakspere,  as  I  said,  moots  this  subtle  question 
in  the  first  part  of  the  sonnet ;  but  he  then  leaves  it,  and 
proceeds  to  make  an  argument  out  of  musical  concords  to 
induce  his  young  friend  to  leave  his  single  state  and,  as  it 
were,  make  himself  a  chord,  instead  of  a  single  tone,  by 
marrying.  The  first  phrase,  "  Music  to  hear,"  is  an  apos- 
trophe to  his  friend  equivalent  to  "  O  thou  whose  voice  is 
music  to  hear." 

VIII 

Music  to  hear,  why  hear'st  thou  music  sadly  ? 

Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy. 

Why  lov'st   thou  that  which  thou  receiv'st  not  gladly  ? 

Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasure  thine  annoy  ? 

If  the  true  concord  of  well-tuned  sounds, 

By  unions  married,  do  offend  thine  ear, 

They  do  but  sweetly  chide  thee,  who  confounds 

In  singleness  the  parts  that  thou  shouldst  bear. 

Mark  how  one  string,  sweet  husband  to  another, 

Strikes  each  in  each  by  mutual  ordering ; 

Resembling  Sire  and  child  and  happy  mother, 

Who,  all  in  one,  one  pleasing  note  do  sing  : 

Whose  speechless  song,  being  many,  seeming  one. 

Sings  this  to  thee,  "  thou  single  wilt  prove  none." 

,And  now  let  us  ascend,  in  conclusion,  to  a  more  general 
view  which  goes  to  the  root  of  the  whole  matter.  From 
the  music  of  Shakspere's  time  let  us  pass  to  the  music  of 
Shakspere's  life. 

Consider  for  a  moment  the  singular  fact  that  the  prin- 


THE    MUSIC    OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME     59 

ciple  upon  which  all  music  depends  is  the  principle  of 
opposition,  ot  antagonism.  The  least  glance  at  the  physi- 
cal basis  of  sound  will  recall  this  clearly  to  your  minds. 
Here  is  a  stretched  string.  As  stretched,  it  is  exerting 
a  force  in  this  direction.  If  I  pull  it  aside,  disturb 
it, —  cross  it,  as  it  were,  and  trouble  it, —  with  a  force 
acting  athwart  its  own  direction,  it  then,  and  then  only, 
gives  forth  its  proper  tone,  makes  its  rightful  music. 
This  principle  is  general  throughout  the  physics  of  tone. 
The  vibration  which  produces  a  musical  sound  is  always 
set  up  by  two  forces,  the  one  acting  athwart  the  other. 

Now  it  is  not  difficult  to  carry  this  idea  over  from 
the  physical  into  the  moral  world.  If  it  is  a  fancy,  it 
is  certainly  not  an  unprofitable  one,  that  a  harmonious 
life,  like  a  musical  tone,  comes  out  of  opposition.  Be- 
tween each  man,  and  the  world  about  him,  there  is  a 
never-ceasing  antagonism.  It  is  an  antagonism  which  re- 
sults from  the  very  constitution  of  things.  Just  so  far  as 
I  am  I,  and  you  are  you,  so  far  must  we  differ ;  the  mys- 
terious course  of  nature,  which  so  often  says  No  to  our 
TeSy  with  its  death  and  its  pain  and  its  other  mysterious 
phenomena  —  this  joins  with  the  force  of  each  individual 
to  oppose  the  force  of  each  other  individual.  Everywhere 
there  is  antagonism,  opposition,  thwarting.  No  person 
who  listens  at  this  moment  need  go  out  of  his  own  expe- 
rience for  a  single  day  to  find  it. 

Well,  then,  the  problem  of  life  may  be  said  to  be  to 
control  these  moral  vibrations  which  are  set  up  by  our 
troubles  and  crosses  into  those  ordered  beats  which  give 
the  musical  tone,  rather  than  those  confused  and  irregular 
pulses  which  result  in  mere  unmusical  noise.  One  man's 
life  is  like  the  mere  creaking  of  a  wheel,  the  binding  of  a 
saw,  the  griding  of  bough  against  bough, —  mere  unorgan- 
ised noise, —  while  another  man's   is   like  that  clear  and 


6o     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

perfect  tone  of  music  which  results  from  regular  vibrations 
produced  by  two  steady  forces  upon  a  proper  material. 

Now  I  find  it  delightful  to  think  that  our  dear  Master 
Shakspere  was  one  of  the  musical  tones,  and  that  he 
wrested  this  music  out  of  the  most  fearful  antagonisms. 
The  loving  study  of  Shakspere  during  the  last  twenty 
years  has  developed  what  seems  to  me  the  certainty  that 
about  midway  of  his  career  some  terrible  cloud  came  over 
his  life  which  for  a  time  darkened  his  existence  with  the 
very  blackness  of  despair.  If  we  divide  his  career  into 
three  periods,  we  find  that  to  his  first  period  hQlong  Love's 
Labour  s  Lost,  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  and  all  the  come- 
dies ;  here,  however,  in  the  second  period,  about  1601— 
1602  and  on,  we  find  him  writing  those  murky  and  bitter 
tragedies  of  Hamlet,  of  Lear,  of  Macbeth,  of  Timon.  His 
antagonism  has  come,  and  has  plucked  him  rudely  out  of 
his  position. 

But  at  last  marvellously  he  conquers  it,  and  orders  it 
to  sweet  music.  Here  in  the  third  period  we  find  him 
writing  Cymbeline,  Winter  s  Tale,  Tempest,  Henry  VIII 
—  plays  all  breathing  of  reunion  after  absence,  of  recon- 
ciliation, of  forgiveness  of  injuries,  of  heavenly  grace.  So 
he  draws  his  oppositions  to  harmony  ;  so  he  converts  his 
antagonisms  into  ravishing  sounds. 

Permit  me  to  hope,  therefore,  that  when  life  shall  come 
to  you,  as  the  tutor  of  Katharina  came  to  her,  and  shall 
hand  you  your  lute  with  frets  on  it,  you  will  not  cry  with 
the  Shrew,  "  Frets,  call  you  them  ?  I'll  fume  with  them," 
but  will  look  upon  the  frets  as  simply  the  conditions  of 
harmony,  and  will  govern  your  troubles  to  music. 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME  — I 


N  carrying  out  the  programme  laid 
down  at  the  beginning,  I  come  in  the 
present  lecture  to  discuss  the  Domestic 
Life  of  Shakspere's  Time.  It  is  my 
wish  to  make  the  treatment  of  this 
subject  centre  directly  upon  Shakspere 
himself.  I  desire  to  present  not  only 
the  domestic  life  of  his  time,  but  that 
part  of  it  which  went  on  about  the  low-ceilinged  and  large- 
raftered  house  in  Henley  Street,  Stratford,  where  Shak- 
spere was  born,  or  in  the  quiet  Warwickshire  fields  and 
pleasant  lanes  betwixt  Shakspere's  home  and  Anne  Hatha- 
way's  cottage  a  mile  distant,  or  in  the  statelier  rooms  and 
park-grounds  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  at  Charlecote  near  by, 
or  in  the  magnificent  castle  of  Kenilworth,  which  was  only 
a  few  miles  distant  and  in  which  Leicester  gave  such  royal 
entertainment  to  Queen  Elizabeth  in  the  summer  of  1575. 
All  these  places  connect  themselves  with  the  personal  his- 
tory of  William  Shakspere  ;  and  I  shall  endeavour  to  bring 
them  before  you,  during  my  two  lectures,  in  some  such  famil- 
iar way  as  will  add  to  those  features  of  Shakspere's  person- 
ality which  we  have  hitherto  been  endeavouring  to  piece  out 

61 


62     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS   FORERUNNERS 

from  his  works.  Observe  that  these  spots  I  have  men- 
tioned in  Stratford  and  the  neighbourhood  yield  us  exam- 
ples of  all  the  sorts  of  life  in  England.  Working  in  the 
fields  about  Stratford  was  many  a  rustic  who  might  serve 
as  a  model  for  Touchstone  or  for  Audrey  ;  hardly  a  sum- 
mer's day  would  pass  that  the  boy  Shakspere,  strolling 
about  the  country  lanes,  would  not  meet  some  tinker  who 
would  at  least  suggest  that  profound  rogue  and  merry 
soul,  Autolycus.  Here  we  have  the  lowest  class  of  Eng- 
lish domestic  life.  Again,  in  the  house  of  William  Shak- 
spere's  father,  John  Shakspere,  in  Henley  Street,  and  in 
the  cottage  of  Richard  Hathaway,  we  have  the  life  of  the 
tradesman,  the  comfortable  burgess,  the  alderman, — for 
Shakspere's  father  was  alderman  of  Stratford  before  his 
reverses  began, — and  of  the  substantial  yeoman.  Again,  in 
the  manor  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  at  Charlecote  we  are  pre- 
sented with  the  mode  of  existence  of  the  English  country 
gentleman,  a  grade  higher  than  the  middle  class.  "  Gen- 
tleman "  in  those  days  had,  as  you  all  remember,  a  much 
more  specialised  meaning  than  in  these  :  it  was  a  pleasant 
thing  to  be  able  to  write  one's  name  Bartholomew  Griffin^ 
Gent.,  or  Samuel  Daniel,  Gent.,  and  we  find  our  master  not 
disdaining  to  see  his  name  as  William  Shakspere,  Gentleman, 
after  he  had  gone  up  to  London,  and  had  become  not  only 
a  popular  playwright,  but  a  man  of  substance,  with  interest 
in  the  Blackfriars  and  the  Globe  theatres  and  with  invest- 
ments in  real  estate.  Lastly,  at  Kenilworth  Shakspere 
might  have  seen  when  he  was  a  boy  the  very  highest  phase 
of  English  life — not  only  that  of  the  nobility  but  that  of 
royalty  itself.  Perhaps  it  will  interest  you  if  I  devote  a 
moment  at  this  point  to  showing  exactly  how  it  is  that  this 
castle  of  Kenilworth  connects  itself  with  Shakspere's  exis- 
tence. There  is  no  eye-evidence  that  Shakspere  was  ever 
at  Kenilworth  ;  but  a  very  pretty  piece   of  circumstantial 


do 

ca 

o 


?3 


<: 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    63 

testimony  to  the  fact  comes  out  by  comparing  a  certain 
passage  in  Shakspere's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  with  cer- 
tain events  which  are  known  to  have  taken  place  at  Kenil- 
worth.  The  passage  is  that  beautiful  vision  which  Oberon 
relates  to  Puck  in  Scene  II  of  Act  II,  Oberon  and 
Titania  have  been  disputing  the  possession  of  the  Indian 
boy,  and  have  just  parted,  after  such  a  gentle  and  airy  tiff 
as  might  be  supposed  to  take  place  sometimes  between  a 
fairy  husband  and  wife.  Oberon,  resolving  to  wreak  a 
fantastic  revenge  upon  Titania,  wishes  to  get  the  mad- 
doting  flower  called  love-in-idleness,  for  the  purpose  of 
dropping  its  juice  on  Titania's  eyes.  Calling  Puck  to  him, 
he  relates  how  it  happened  that  this  flower  acquired  its 
marvellous  virtue  of  causing  any  one  upon  whose  eyelids  its 
juice  was  laid  to  love  the  next  live  creature  that  should  be 
beheld,  no  matter  how  monstrous  : 

My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.      Thou  remember'st 

Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 

And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 

Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath. 

That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song, 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres. 

To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember. 

Obe.     That  very  time  I  saw,  but  thou  couldst  not. 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd  :   a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal  throned  by  the  west, 
And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow. 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  : 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  wat'ry  moon, 
And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 


64     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Whereupon  the  erring  shaft  of  Cupid  fell  upon  a  little 
flower,  turned  it  from  white  to  purple,  and  endowed  it  with 
its  marvellous  powers. 

Now  it  so  happens  that  this  passage  describes,  with  an 
exquisite  mixture  of  fact  and  allegory,  a  series  of  events 
which  took  place  at  Kenilworth  some  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  before.  In  the  summer  of  the  year  1575  Qvieen 
Elizabeth  came  down  from  London  to  visit  Leicester,  who 
was  then  in  the  very  height  of  his  ambitious  purposes, 
and  in  particular  was  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  win  the 
hand  of  the  Queen  herself  in  marriage.  He  entertained 
his  royal  mistress  in  a  series  of  pageants  which  were  so 
magnificent  and  elaborate  as  to  give  them  a  supreme 
place  even  in  that  reign  of  glorious  festivities.  The 
chroniclers  of  the  period  have  described  these  pageants  in 
full  ;  and  among  them  was  one  which  Shakspere  is  evi- 
dently describing  in  the  passage  quoted — when,  for  the 
entertainment  of  Queen  Bess,  Leicester  had  caused  to  come 
over  a  sheet  of  water  in  his  park  a  figure  on  a  dolphin's 
back,  singing  ;  and  inasmuch  as  Leicester  was  all  this  time 
making  the  most  vigorous  love  to  Elizabeth, —  who  ap- 
pears in  this  passage  as  the  "fair  vestal  throned  by  the  west," 
— and  as  she  escaped  his  toils  and  passed  on  "  in  maiden 
meditation,  fancy-free,"  you  can  imagine  the  grateful  plea- 
sure with  which  the  Queen  would  have  had  all  this  scene 
thus  vividly  recalled  to  her  by  Shakspere  ;  for  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream  was  doubtless  acted  before  the  Queen, — 
possibly  written  for  that  special  purpose, —  and  Shakspere 
probably  anticipated  in  writing  this  speech  of  Oberon's  the 
delight  with  which  her  mind  would  recur  to  those  "  princely 
pleasures  of  Kenilworth  "  which  marked  the  heyday  of  her 
life  and  of  Leicester's  brilliancy. 

Now  if,  as  I  say,  Shakspere  witnessed  these  royal 
masques  at   Kenilworth, —  as  well  might  have  happened, 


c 
o 

> 

< 

I 

a 
o 

-t3 


CD 


o 
U 

j3 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    65 

for  he  was  then  eleven  years  old,  and  Kenilvvorth  was 
close  by  Stratford, —  we  will  have  discovered,  as  I  said, 
points  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Shakspere's 
home  where  he  could  have  seen  every  phase  of  English 
life,  from  that  of  the  tramp  and  the  tinker  and  the  clown, 
through  that  of  the  burgess  and  the  country  gentleman,  up 
to  the  court's  and  its  brilliant  queen's. 

I  shall,  then,  set  forth  all  these  surroundings  of  Shak- 
spere's life  in  the  most  vivid  way  I  can,  and  shall  recur 
with  detail  to  the  environment  I  have  just  now  rapidly 
sketched. 

I  have  woven  a  little  romance  which  I  shall  read,  in 
which,  taking  Shakspere  as  a  boy  in  Stratford,  I  endeavour 
to  picture  English  life  in  his  time  by  tracing  some  passages 
in  his  own  existence  which  I  have  made  out  of  such  facts 
as  I  could  gather  regarding  sixteenth-century  existence, 
only  using  my  own  fancy  just  enough  to  connect  these 
facts  with  Shakspere  and  with  one  another. 

But  I  wish  to  bring  this  man's  life  before  you  from  all 
possible  points  of  view  ;  and  with  that  purpose,  only  as- 
suring you  that  in  the  end  you  will  find  all  converging 
quite  legitimately  upon  the  subject,  I  beg  to  devote  this 
present  lecture  to  two  matters  which  will  serve  to  give 
depth  and  foundation  to  what  might  otherwise  degenerate 
into  trivial  details.  These  are,  on  the  one  hand,  those 
great  events  in  the  world's  history  which  happened  just 
previous  to  and  during  Shakspere's  time  and  which  in  a 
thousand  ways  reacted  upon  and  cropped  out  in  all  the 
domestic  life  of  his  period:  against  which,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  wish  to  set  those  inner  spiritual  events  which 
took  place  deep  within  the  soul  of  Shakspere,  which  went 
on  refining  and  deepening  his  character,  and  which  made 
him  a  wonderfully  wiser  and  sweeter  man  when  he  re- 
turned to  Stratford  about  1610  or  1612  than  he  was  when 


66  SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

he  left  it,  some  twenty-five  years  before,  a  youth,  with  all 
the  passions  of  this  world  burning  in  his  veins. 

Permit  me,  then,  to  recall  to  your  memories  several 
interesting  points  in  what  one  might  call  the  Outer  Life 
of  that  marvellous  period  which  reached  from  the  middle 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  1450,  to  the  end  of  the  sixteenth, 
1600 — a  period  which  in  the  highest  sense  we  may  call 
Shakspere's  time,  for  he  was  the  representative  and  the 
consummation  of  it. 

Then,  after  arraying  these  external  facts  before  you,  I 
will  ask  leave  to  contrast  with  them  the  Inner  Life  and 
development  of  Shakspere,  which  I  think  we  can  trace 
with  great  satisfaction  by  a  proper  use  of  those  appliances 
which  modern  criticism  has  furnished  us. 

Here,  then,  you  have  a  convenient  outline  of  the  pres- 
ent lecture  :  we  are  to  discuss  the  Outer  Life  of  the  Renais- 
sance, and  the  Inner  Life  of  Shakspere. 

Take  your  minds  back,  then,  to  the  middle  of  the  fif- 
teenth century.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  speak  with 
philosophic  calmness  of  the  prodigious  series  of  events 
which  now  begin  to  take  place,  not  only  in  politics,  but 
in  religion,  in  art,  in  science,  in  practical  industries  —  in 
pretty  nearly  the  whole  range  of  man's  activity. 

At  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century  (1440-50 ) 
Gutenberg  and  Faust  lead  off  with  the  invention  of  print- 
ing. Looking  back  on  it  from  our  standpoint  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  we  can  see  that  this  marvellous  discovery 
is  as  if  some  mysterious  Well-wisher  knew  the  tremendous 
conflict  coming,  and  so  thrust  into  the  hands  of  the  age 
this  mightiest  weapon  against  ignorance, —  Printing, —  as 
the  arm  in  white  samite  rose  out  of  the  lake  and  placed  the 
great  brand  Excalibur  in  the  hands  of  Arthur. 

In  T455  rage  those  Wars  of  the  Roses  between  York 
and  Lancaster  which  for  so  long  kept  blood  and  terror  — 


^ 


o 

•v. 

<u 

\- 

Ui 

nj 

i^ 

^ 

bo 

u 

s: 

DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    67 

red  and  white  indeed  —  at  struggle  in  the  whole  complex- 
ion of  English  life. 

In  1457  glass  begins  to  be  manufactured  in  England. 

In  1 47 1  four  very  notable  things  happen:  Wolsey, 
the  afterwards  pathetic  cardinal,  is  born  ;  Thomas  a  Kem- 
pis,  the  sweet-souled  imitator  of  Christ,  goes  to  see  his 
Master;  Albert  Diirer  is  born;  and,  what  is  perhaps  a 
more  significant  circumstance  than  all,  William  Caxton, 
the  first  EngHsh  printer,  sets  up  a  printing-press  at  West- 
minster, and  English  books  straightway  begin  to  multiply. 

In  1473  Copernicus  is  born.  In  1474  comes  Michel- 
angelo. 

In  1477  they  begin  to  make  watches  at  Nuremberg; 
and  in  the  same  year  Titian  is  born. 

In  1478  the  Spanish  Inquisition  begins. 

In  1483  Raphael  appears  in  the  world;  and  in  the 
same  year  Martin  Luther  is  born. 

In  1492  Christopher  Columbus  discovers  America; 
and  in  the  same  year  five  hundred  thousand  Jews  are  ban- 
ished from  Spain. 

In  1497  Vasco  da  Gama  sails  to  the  East  Indies  by 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

In  1500  Savonarola  and  Machiavelli  are  flourishing  in 
Italy. 

In  1505  shillings  begin  to  be  coined  in  England;  and 
John  Knox  is  born. 

In  1509  gardening  begins  to  flourish  in  England, 
brought  out  of  the  Netherlands,  and  the  people's  fare  is 
greatly  varied  with  vegetables. 

In  1 512  Ponce  de  Leon  lands  on  the  coast  of  Florida; 
and  in  15 13  Balboa  discovers  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

A  great  year  is  1517.  Luther  preaches  against  indul- 
gences ;  Erasmus  and  Melanchthon  appear  on  the  scene ; 
gentle  Roger  Ascham,  afterwards  tutor  to  Queen  Eliza- 


68     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

beth  and  Jane  Grey,  is  born ;  Europeans  are  seen  at 
Canton,  China ;  and  Copernicus  announces  a  comprehen- 
sible system  of  the  universe. 

In  1 521  Gustavus  Vasa  begins  to  show  the  Swedish 
people  the  sight  of  a  man;  while  in  the  same  year,  far 
down  in  the  southwestward  of  the  world,  that  brilliant 
buccaneer  Cortez  is  taking  possession  of  the  City  of 
Mexico. 

In  1 521  Magellan  discovers  the  Philippine  Islands, 
being  the  first  man  that  ever  sailed  round  the  globe. 
In  1 519  he  had  sailed  from  Spain;  he  kept  a  westerly 
course  for  some  three  years,  and  finally  his  ship  reached 
home. 

In  1524  a  considerable  part  of  Europe  was  thrown  into 
alarm  by  the  prediction  that  another  deluge  was  about  to 
come  upon  the  earth,  and  people  might  everywhere  be 
seen  building  arks;  the  season,  however,  happened  to  be 
unusually  dry.     In  this  year  Palestrina  is  born. 

In  1525  Sultan  Baber  establishes  the  great  Mogul 
empire  in  India. 

In  1529  we  first  hear  the  name  of  Protestant,  which  is 
applied  in  the  Diet  of  Spires  to  those  who  protested 
against  the  mother  church  of  Rome.  In  this  same  year 
Sir  Thomas  More  is  Lord  Chancellor  of  England. 

In  1533  Henry  VIII  marries  Anne  Bullen.  In  the 
same  year  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
are  born. 

In  1534  Allegri  (called  Correggio  from  his  Lombard 
village)  dies. 

In  1535  Ignatius  Loyola  founds  the  order  of  Jesuits; 
and  Sir  Thomas  More  is  beheaded. 

In  1538—39  more  than  six  hundred  monasteries  and 
religious  houses  are  suppressed  in  England  and  Wales  by 
Henry  VIII. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    69 

In  1542  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  is  born;  and  in  the 
following  year  the  King  of  France  first  wears  silk  stockings. 

In  1545  a  very  great  event  happens:  though  it  was  a 
long  time  before  people  knew  how  great,  and  probably 
many  at  this  day  have  never  heard  the  name  of  Vesalius, 
who  in  this  year  brought  out  his  work  on  anatomy. 

In  1549  telescopes  are  invented;  and  Cervantes  is 
born,  to  delight  all  the  ages  with  the  figure  of  Don 
Quixote. 

In  1553  Lady  Jane  Grey  is  proclaimed  Queen  of  Eng- 
land, remains  queen  for  ten  days,  is  then  deposed,  and 
soon  after  executed.  In  the  same  year  Calvin  causes 
Servetus  to  be  burned. 

In  1554  the  common  people  of  England  are  forbidden 
to  wear  silk. 

In  1555  Ridley  and  Latimer  are  burned  at  Oxford. 

In  1556  Charles  V  leaves  a  throne  which  commanded 
Germany,  Austria,  Hungary,  Spain,  and  the  Netherlands, 
and  retires  to  a  monastery. 

In  1558  Elizabeth  becomes  Queen  of  England. 

In  1 56 1  Francis  Bacon  is  born. 

In  1564  three  very  notable  events  happen:  Galileo 
is  born  at  Pisa ;  William  Shakspere  is  born  at  Stratford ; 
and  John  Calvin  dies  at  Geneva. 

In  1572  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  in  France 
takes  place.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  is  in  Paris  at  this  time,  and 
finds  refuge  in  the  house  of  the  English  ambassador.  In 
this  same  year  false  hair  is  brought  into  England  from 
France,  and  the  women  thus  acquire  a  new  device  against 
time. 

In  1577  Sir  Francis  Drake  sails  away  from  England 
and  goes  round  the  globe,  returning  in  three  years,  after 
many  dangers  and  hardships.  He  is  the  first  English 
circumnavigator. 


70  SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

In  1579  the  Netherland  provinces  under  William  of 
Orange  revolt ;  and  the  next  year  Camoens  dies. 

In  1582  Tycho  Brahe  flourishes  and  greatly  advances 
astronomy.  In  the  same  year  Pope  Gregory  introduces 
the  New  Style  calendar  in  Italy,  the  5th  of  October  being 
counted  the  15th. 

In  1583  tobacco  is  brought  from  Virginia  into  Eng- 
land. I  think  it  notable,  by  the  way,  that  Shakspere  never 
mentions  tobacco  at  all  in  his  plays.  One  would  think 
that  a  spectacle  so  odd  as  men  puffing  smoke  from  a  weed 
out  of  their  mouths  and  nostrils  would  certainly  have  fur- 
nished Shakspere  with  some  allusion  or  other,  for  he  was 
always  hitting  off  current  matters  which  occupied  the  peo- 
ple's minds  in  any  way.  Ben  Jonson  is  full  of  it ;  Cap- 
tain Bobadilla,  for  instance,  in  Every  Man  in  his  Humour^ 
invites  Matthew  —  having  first  carefully  ascertained  that 
Matthew  has  two  shillings  in  his  pocket  to  pay  for  it  —  to 
go  with  him  to  an  alehouse  where  they  will  have  "  a  bunch 
of  radish  and  salt,  to  taste  our  wine,  and  a  pipe  of  tobacco 
to  close  the  orifice  of  the  stomach."  Again,  Cob,  the 
water-carrier,  in  describing  this  same  Captain  Bobadilla, 
who  is  a  lodger  at  Cob's  house,  says :  "  O,  I  have  a 
guest.  .  .  .  He  does  swear  the  legiblest  of  any  man  chris- 
tened :  By  St.  George;  the  foot  of  Pharaoh  ;  the  body  of  me ; 
as  I  am  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier ;  and  withal  he  does  take 
this  same  filthy  roguish  tobacco  the  finest  and  the  cleanli- 
est !  It  would  do  a  man  good  to  see  the  fume  come  forth 
at's  tonnels."^ 

In  I  584  Miles  Standish  is  born.  In  the  same  year  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  sails  over  to  Virginia. 

1  Cf.   Sir  John  Hawkins's  account  Britons'     substance,    of    which     a 

of  tobacco  in  Lanier's  Florida,  and  piece  no  bigger  than  a  bean  would 

Sir  Thomas  Browne's  and  Stephen  destroy  the  desire  for  food  during 

Gosson's    account    of  the    ancient  two  or  three  days,  etc. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    71 

In  1585  the  first  English  colony  in  America  is  estab- 
lished at  Roanoke. 

In  1587  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  is  beheaded. 

In  1589  Henry  of  Navarre  comes  to  the  throne  of 
France.  In  the  same  year  English  people  begin  to  ride 
in  coaches. 

In  1592  Montaigne  finishes  his  essay-writing  for  this 
world. 

In  1595  Torquato  Tasso  dies. 

In  1596  Descartes  is  born. 

In  1598  Edmund  Spenser  becomes  poet  laureate  of 
England. 

In  the  same  year  the  Edict  of  Nantes  carries  joy  to 
the  hearts  of  the  Huguenots. 

In  1600  the  great  East  India  Company  of  England  is 
established  ;  Charles  I  of  England  is  born  ;  and  Giordano 
Bruno,  a  philosopher  of  very  nimble  wit,  is  burned  at 
Rome  for  heresy. 

In  1 601  Essex  is  beheaded. 

In  1603  many  thousand  persons  perish  of  the  plague  in 
London.  In  the  same  year  James  I,  son  of  Mary  Qiieen 
of  Scots,  unites  the  crowns  of  England  and  Scotland  upon 
his  own  head. 

In  1604  the  great  translation  of  the  Bible  which  we  all 
now  use  is  resolved  upon  by  the  conference  of  prelates 
and  ministers. 

In  1606  Dr.  Gilbert  becomes  acquainted  with  the 
powers  of  electric  conductors  and  non-conductors. 

In  1608  people  begin  to  eat  with  forks  in  England. 

In  1609  the  thermometer  is  invented. 

In  1 6 14  Sir  John  Napier  invents  logarithms;  and 
New  York  City  is  founded  by  the  Dutch.  In  this  year 
also  a  project  which  had  an  immense  influence  upon  the 
health  and  comfort  of  the  people  of  London  is  carried  out. 


72     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

The  New  River  is  brought  to  the  city  and  suppHes  it 
with  water.  The  inhabitants  had  previously  been  served 
by  water-carriers,  who  brought  the  water  round  in  tankards 
every  morning,  as  our  postman  carries  letters,  to  each 
household.  The  poorer  sort  of  people  had  to  send 
apprentices,  servants,  and  children  after  their  water.  In 
Ben  Jonson's  comedy  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humour^ 
Cob,  one  of  the  main  characters,  is  a  water-carrier.  And 
when  we  think  of  the  lavish  way  in  which  we  use  water 
from  our  liberal  reservoirs,  it  gives  one  a  startling  idea  of 
the  housekeeping  in  those  days  when  one  finds  a  whole 
household  like  Kitely's,  in  Jonson's  comedy,  dependent 
on  the  water  that  one  man,  Cob,  could  bring ;  for  I  find  in 
one  passage  where  Kitely,  the  master  of  the  household,  re- 
proaches Cob,  who  has  been  delayed  on  his  rounds  that  day, 
with  the  trouble  he  had  caused,  telling  him  the  maids  will 
have  him  by  the  back^  i  faith^for  coming  so  late  in  the  morning. 

Perhaps  in  those  days  of  the  mighty  consumption  of 
ale  and  sack  the  people  shared  in  that  aversion  to  water 
which  old  Jack  FalstafF  expresses  when  he  declares,  with 
loathing,  water  swells  a  man. 

In  1615  Richard  Baxter  is  born. 

In  161 6  William  Shakspere  dies. 

Here,  then,  you  have  before  your  eyes  the  outer  life 
of  this  wonderful  age. 

I  ask  you  now  to  put  the  agility  of  your  imaginations 
to  its  proof,  and  to  pass  on  from  this  dazzling  array  of 
names  and  events  whose  influence  is  in  many  cases  so 
intimately  connected  with  the  every-day  life  not  only  of 
Shakspere's  time  but  of  our  own,  for  the  purpose  of  look- 
ing in  upon  some  occurrences  in  the  private  life  of  Shak- 
spere, which  throw  light  upon  the  inner  life  we  shall 
discuss  later,  just  as  these  historical  facts  help  to  explain 
the  inner  life  of  those  marvellous  centuries  under  review. 


CHAPTER   XVI 


THE   DOMESTIC   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPERE'S   TIME— II 


ANNOUNCED  in  my  last  lecture 
that  the  present  one  would  consist  of 
a  romance  which  I  had  made,  in  which, 
taking  Shakspere  for  a  hero,  I  pro- 
posed to  weave  a  picture  of  the  man- 
ners of  his  contemporaries,  and  so 
complete  my  account  of  Domestic 
Life  in  Shakspere's  Time. 
In  coming  to  put  together  the  facts  that  I  had  col- 
lected with  the  story  wherein  I  wished  to  embody  them, 
I  have  found  that  the  limits  to  which  my  lecture  is 
confined  would  be  wholly  insufficient  to  develope  the 
narrative  with  any  satisfaction.  Of  course  under  these 
circumstances  I  sacrifice  the  story.  I  wish  to  give  you  as 
many  of  the  facts  of  Shakspere's  environment  and  of  his 
age  as  possible ;  and,  as  it  is,  there  will  be  a  melancholy 
overplus,  when  I  am  done,  of  interesting  matters  which  I 
should  have  liked  to  present  to  you,  but  which  I  must 
suppress  for  lack  of  time. 

Instead  of  entirely  sacrificing  my  story  of  Shakspere, 
however,  I  can,  without  developing  it,  at  least  give  you 
as  I  go  along  a  sort  of  ground-plan,  or,  rather,  architect's 

73 


74   SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

bill,  of  it,  that  will  serve  to  show  how  it  could  be  con- 
structed from  the  materials  which  I  shall  lay  before  you 
in  the  shape  of  facts. 

Without  more  ado,  then,  fancy  that  on  the  night  of 
Friday,  July  8,  in  the  year  1575,  about  twelve  o'clock, 
when  all  the  good  burgesses  in  Stratford  were  comfortably 
asleep,  the  family  of  John  Shakspere,  residing  in  a  double- 
tenement  house  in  Henley  Street,  were  awakened  by  a 
furious  knocking  at  the  front  door.  The  eldest  son  of 
the  family  —  then  only  a  couple  of  months  past  eleven 
years  of  age  —  was  the  first  to  hear  the  noise.  He  was, 
indeed,  always  a  light  sleeper  —  as  if  Destiny  intended  he 
should  lose  as  little  as  possible  of  the  world  which  he  was 
afterwards  to  weave  into  his  poems.  And  so,  hastily  spring- 
ing from  his  bed,  he  knocked  at  his  father's  door.  His 
mother  answered  —  for  Mary  Shakspere,  like  most  mothers 
who  have  brought  up  children,  started  from  sleep  at  slight 
sounds ;  and  distinguishing  his  mother's  vigorous  shake 
of  the  stout  alderman  by  her  side,  followed  by  the  sudden 
stoppage  of  the  snores  with  which  honest  John  Shakspere 
was  bugling  the  progress  of  the  night,  William  passed 
quickly  down  the  steps,  and  was  in  the  act  of  unbarring 
the  front  door  when  his  father  called  to  him  :  "  Hold, 
William  !  wouldst  thou  unbar  the  door  to  every  knock, 
like  a  dicing-house  ?  Let  him  thunder ;  perhaps  it  is 
some  gallant,  or  drunken  roisterer,  that  would  have  a 
night's  lodging  and  defile  the  house.  I'll  speak  him  from 
the  window."  Hereupon  John  Shakspere  thrust  his  head 
from  the  window  of  a  low  chamber  in  the  second  story, 
which  projected  over  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  at  the 
same  time  calling  out,  "  Who  is  this  below  there  that 
beats  honest  folk  out  of  bed  in  the  midnight  ?  " 

"  Marry,  one  that  wishes  he  was  where  ye  have  just 
come  from,"  replied  a  voice  from  the  street,  where  the 


-3 
.  3 


.n 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME  75 

family  could  dimly  perceive  a  horseman  who  had  dis- 
mounted and  was  holding  the  bridle  of  his  horse  with  one 
hand  while  he  banged  the  door  with  his  riding-whip  in  the 
other.  "  Open  your  door,  Master  Shakspere  ;  here  is  a 
great  ado  as  far  off  as  Killingworth" — which  was  the  com- 
mon pronunciation  of  Keniiworth  in  those  days — "and 
Ichington,  and  there  is  no  man  but  thee  can  mend  it ;  to  wit, 
the  Queen,  God  save  her  Grace,  is  to  be  at  KiUingworth 
to-morrow,  and  my  lord  of  Leicester  hath  had  in  a  great 
army  of  new  serving-men  and  folk  of  all  degree  for  his 
pageants  and  his  shows  and  his  devil-may-tell-'em-alls, 
and  there  is  more  men  than  gloves,  and  the  usher  must 
needs  have  his  gloves,  and  even  he  that  is  to  play  the  sal- 
vage man  in  the  woods  before  the  Queen  must  have  his 
gloves  before  her  Grace's  grace,  and  thou  art  to  send  by 
me  straightway  all  the  gloves  in  thy  shop  to  Killingworth, 
or  else,  by  the  usher's  moaning,  the  heaven  and  the  earth 
will  clap  together  and  Domesday  come  a  thousand  year 
afore  his  time, — for  lack  of  some  dozen  pieces  of  leather, — 
and  I  would  the  usher  were  doomed  to  eat  'em,  for  send- 
ing me  on  a  fool's  errand  at  night;  and  —  hold."  But 
John  Shakspere  had  by  this  time  hurriedly  descended  and 
opened  his  door,  whereupon  the  servant  —  for  they  recog- 
nised him  as  such  by  his  blue  livery  —  entered  and  fin- 
ished his  story.  "  And  again.  Master  Shakspere,  and 
mind  thou  do  this,  or  we  will  have  two  Domesdays  to- 
gether, grinding  us  like  the  upper  and  nether  millstone. 
My  lord  of  Leicester's  gentleman  hath  come  flying  to  me 
as  I  rode  out  of  Killingworth  Great  Gate,  and  saith ;  My 
lord  of  Leicester  to-morrow  at  Long  Ichington  shall  feast  the 
^ueen,  and  they  will  hunt  from  there  to  Killingworth  in  the 
afternoon,  and  my  lord  of  Leicester  will  call  for  his  bravest 
new  pair  of  hunting-gloves,  and,  by  the  Mass,  I  cannot  find 
them  to  have  them  ready,  for  belike  some  of  these  new  gentry 


76     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

in  the  castle  have  already  stole  'em  ;  and  my  lord,  if  he  have  not 
his  gloves  to  prank  in  before  the  ^een,  will  have  my  head, — 
saith  my  lord's  gentleman  ;  and  therefore  thou,  Master 
Shakspere,  art  to  fall  straightway  to  thy  work  this  very 
instant,  and  upon  the  bravest  pair  of  hunting-gloves  thou 
hast  thou  art  to  stitch  the  arms  of  my  lord  of  Leicester, 
with  the  two  ragged  staves  of  silver  in  white  silk  ;  and 
thou  art  then  to  despatch  a  trusty  messenger  on  a  fleet 
horse  to  Long  Ichington,  who  shall  arrive  by  three  of  the 
clock  in  the  afternoon  of  to-morrow,  and  shall  straightway 
find  my  lord  of  Leicester's  gentleman  and  hand  him  the 
gloves  thou  shalt  stitch." 

It  was  but  a  few  moments  before  the  household  of 
John  Shakspere  presented  the  unusual  scene  of  an  entire 
family  working  after  midnight  as  if  it  were  midday.  The 
package  of  gloves  was  made  up,  and  the  servant  remounted 
his  horse  and  galloped  back  towards  Kenilworth.  John 
and  Mary  Shakspere  then  went  to  work  on  Leicester's 
gloves,  he  taking  the  right  and  she  the  left ;  and, 
while  they  stitched,  William,  with  his  eyes  glistening, 
begged  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  carry  the  precious 
package  to  Long  Ichington.  The  father  was  against  it : 
the  boy  would  have  to  set  out  before  it  was  fairly  light  in 
order  to  insure  against  accidents,  and  it  was  a  lonesome 
road,  and  the  like  arguments  ;  but  the  mother  saw  a  wild 
longing  in  his  young  eyes  :  a  vague  flash  of  a  dream  passed 
before  her  of  what  might  happen  if  William  were  in  such 
fine  company,  and  so  she  urged  his  request. 

The  consequence  was,  in  short,  that  before  daylight  on 
the  Saturday  morning  young  William  Shakspere  made  his 
way  on  a  good  horse  out  of  Stratford  and  took  the  road  to 
Long  Ichington.  As  he  passed  along  the  deep  Warwick- 
shire hedges  and  under  the  boughs  of  many  a  great  oak,  the 
unspeakable  enchantment  of  the  early  summer  morning 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    77 

arose  out  of  the  grass  and  descended  from  the  trees  ;  vague 
forms  of  wood-creatures  seemed  to  sail  over  to  him  out  of 
the  forest  upon  the  pungent  waftures  and  odours  of  green 
leaves  and  flowers,  forms  which  afterwards  became  Peas- 
blossom  and   Mustard-seed  and  that  pretty  company  ;  a 
web,  spun  by  an  early  summer  spider  across  a  narrow  lane, 
floated  into  his  face,  whereupon  he  fancied  it  the  salutation 
of  some  wood-elf,  and  cried  out,  Good  mornings  Cobweb. 
Presently  the  power  and  the  mystery  of  the  deep  green 
woods  came  over  his  soul ;  he  burst  into  tears  of  unspeak- 
able rapture,  he  sang  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  while  a  great 
dome  of  silver  built  itself  in  the  sky  before  the  rising  sun, 
the  birds  lifted  up  their  voices,  the  little  brooks  rippled 
across  the  road,  the  labourers  came  out  into  the  fields,  the 
strolling  tinker,  the  great  wagon,  passed  him   unnoticed, 
the  farm,    the   thorp,  the   country-seat,   floated    by  him ; 
and  so  he  fared  through  the  morning  in  a  dream  of  vague 
delight  until  midday,  when   the  hot  sun   beating   on  his 
head  suddenly  admonished  him  to  look  about.     He  pulled 
himself  together,   and    discovered   during   that   operation 
that  he  had  an  amazing  appetite,  having   eaten  nothing 
since  his  early  supper  the  night  before.      Upon  asking  the 
distance   to    Long   Ichington,   he   was   told  it   was  but   a 
short  mile ;  so,  having  three  hours  to  spare,  he  determined 
to  avail  himself  of  a  piece  of  venison  pasty  which   Mis- 
tress Shakspere  had  stuffed  into  his  pouch,  before  he  left 
home,  for  his  breakfast.      Observing  that  a  brook  flowed 
across  the  way  just  ahead,  he  rode  up  to  it,  turned  his 
horse's  head  into  the  wood,  and  threaded  his  way  between 
the  tree-trunks  until  he  found  a  spot,  some  half-mile  from 
the  highway,  where  the  brook  made  a  round  and  placid 
pool,  embowered  in  cool   foliage.      Here  he  dismounted, 
fastened  his  horse  to  a  swinging  bough  which  would  allow 
him    to    nibble   the    grass, — "  for   I    will    eat   with    thee, 


78    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Flight,"  he  said  to  the  horse,  patting  his  neck,  "  though  I 
cared  not  to  munch  by  the  roadside  with  Jack  and  Jill," 
—  and  sat  down  on  the  bank.  Here,  with  a  little  laugh 
of  luxury,  he  drew  off  his  girdle  and  loosened  his  doublet. 
He  had  caused  his  mother,  some  time  previously,  to  sew 
him  up  a  sort  of  leathern  pouch  of  a  size  sufficient  to  hold 
two  or  three  books  which  he  owned  and  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  carry  with  him  in  his  long  and  lonesome 
excursions  about  the  country.  As  he  opened  the  pouch 
he  perceived  that  his  good  mother,  in  her  hurry,  had  stuffed 
the  pasty  in  with  his  books,  and  so  he  took  all  out  to- 
gether. He  had  recently  made  a  great  acquisition  :  this 
was  a  copy  of  TotteTs  Miscellany  of  Uncertain  Authors 
(the  first  printed  book  of  modern  poetry) ;  and  he  now 
eagerly  embraced  the  chance  to  read  a  poem  or  two  while 
he  was  chewing  his  pasty.  So  he  spread  the  book  open 
before  him,  and  fell  to,  feeding  body  and  soul  at  the  same 
time.  Presently  he  came  to  that  perfect  parting-song  of 
Wyatt's,  "  And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus,"  which  first 
appeared  in  this  book.  Now  Shakspere,  though  but 
eleven  years  old,  was  completely  gone  in  love.  I  do  not 
know  why  I  should  say  though  but  eleven  years  old ;  the 
man  knows  not  love  who  has  not  loved  at  eleven.  Love 
at  eleven  is  like  a  dewdrop  on  the  end  of  a  grass-blade 
before  the  sun  is  up,  questioning  neither  its  source  nor  its 
fate,  limpid,  brilliant,  round,  perfect.  Of  course  the  lady 
was  older  than  himself,  being  Mistress  Anne  Hathaway, 
whom  he  had  but  recently  seen  and  fallen  a  victim  to. 
Now  the  tender  words  of  the  poem  seemed  to  have  been 
written  for  him  :  he  had  rushed  out  of  Stratford  without 
a  chance  to  bid  an  eternal  farewell  to  the  goddess  over  at 
Shottery.  "  And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus,"  he  repeated 
aloud. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    79 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay !   say  nay  !  for  shame, 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !      Say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  woe  and  wealth  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay !      Say  nay  ! 

At  this  moment,  while  he  was  making  fantastic  application 
of  the  poem  to  his  own  case,  longing  that  he  might  have 
heard  such  words  as  these  fall  from  the  red  lips  of  Mis- 
tress Anne,  a  small  bird  flew  into  the  green  Paradise  of 
leaves  just  over  his  head  and  began  to  warble  ;  with  a 
smile,  the  boy  gently  leaned  backward  until  he  lay  on  the 
grass,  flat  of  his  back,  watching  the  bird.  And  so  pres- 
ently the  rhythm  of  the  poem  melted  vaguely  into  the 
warble  of  the  bird  ;  the  plashing  of  the  brook,  the  drowsy 
swell  and  passing  away  of  breaths  of  warm  air  among  the 
leaves,  the  mysterious  under-lull  of  the  noontide,  came 
over  him  with  power  ;  the  boy's  eyes,  unaccustomed  to 
the  vigils  and  excitements  of  the  day  before,  slowly  closed, 
and  he  passed  away  into  a  blissful  slumber,  in  which,  with 
the  fantastic  absurdity  of  dreams,  he  found  that  Anne 
Hathaway's  name  was  changed  to  Elizabeth,  and  he  was 
seated  by  her,  wildly  declaring  his  passion. 

Leaving  him  sound  asleep  in  the  gentle  care  of  the 
greenwood,  let  us  now  see  what  is  toward  at  Long 
Ichington.     Here  Leicester  had  received  the  Queen  with  a 


8o     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

great  feast,  and  after  she  had  rested  during  the  heat  of  the 
day,  about  five  o'clock  they  set  out  for  Kenilworth  Castle. 
It  had  been  arranged  that  they  should  hunt  the  hart  on 
the  way ;  and  as  it  was  but  seven  miles  from  Long 
Ichington  to  Kenilworth,  Leicester  had  planned  that  the 
wayside  hunt  would  bring  them  to  the  Great  Gate  of  his 
castle  about  eight  in  the  evening,  where  he  had  in  waiting 
for  the  Queen  the  most  magnificent  preparations  that  had 
ever  been  seen  in  England.  Soon  after  the  brilliant 
cavalcade  left  Long  Ichington,  the  Queen  spurred  her 
horse  into  the  forest.  A  great  longing  to  be  quite  alone 
among  the  great  oaks  possessed  her ;  and  so,  waving  her 
hand  to  her  attendants,  with  instructions  to  Leicester  to 
follow,  she  galloped  forward  until  she  found  herself  out  of 
sight  of  humanity.  Then  she  tossed  the  reins  on  her 
horse's  neck  and  slowly  walked  him  over  the  turf  betwixt 
the  oaks,  inhaling  the  sweet  pungent  breaths  that  floated 
about  the  forest,  and  saying  to  herself,  "  Would  God  the 
air  of  courts  was  so  sweet!  Why  be  men's  souls  so  foul, 
and  trees  so  fresh  ?  "  Then  she  fell  to  meditating  upon 
Leicester  and  his  love.  Shall  /,  shall  I  not  ?  ran  her 
mind,  in  one  of  those  inward  debates  between  the  woman 
and  the  queen  which  she  had  so  often  to  carry  on. 
Presently,  while  she  was  absorbed  in  thought,  with  head 
declined  on  her  bosom,  her  horse  pointed  his  ears  forward, 
lifted  his  head,  and  stopped,  in  such  a  way  as,  though 
gentle  enough,  had  nearly  thrown  her  from  the  saddle. 
"  What,  Roger  !  "  she  said,  and,  quickly  recovering  herself, 
looked  forward.  A  few  feet  distant  she  saw  a  slender- 
limbed  boy  lying  stretched  on  the  green  bank  of  a  brook, 
one  hand  resting  on  an  open  volume  of  poems,  the  other 
lying  near  an  undevoured  slice  of  venison  pasty.  The 
Queen's  eyes  sparkled  ;  she  had  all  a  woman's  eye  for  a 
cunning  sight  or  a  pretty  situation.    Dismounting  from  her 


V 


Queen  Elizabeth 
From  the  picture  formerly  in  the  royal  collection  at  St.  James  Palace 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    8i 

horse,  she  stole  on  tiptoe  to  young  Shakspere, —  for  it  was 
he,  still  dreaming  of  his  love, — knelt  by  him,  and  bent  over 
to  kiss  the  lips  which  were  parted  in  the  ravishing  smile 
of  a  dream.  The  rustle  of  her  long  drapery  half  awoke 
the  boy,  and  with  eyes  partly  open,  though  not  yet  freed 
from  his  dream,  he  murmured,  "  Elizabeth  !  "  Then, 
coming  to  full  consciousness,  he  opened  his  great  eyes 
wide  on  the  radiant  face  which  was  bending  over  him,  and 
lay  still,  in  a  maze  of  wonder  and  pleasure.  "  Thou  hast 
the  best  taste  of  any  lad  in  England  !  "  said  the  Queen, 
and  broke  into  peals  of  laughter  which  rang  through  the 
forest.  "  To  murmur  Elizabeth  at  waking  !  Do  the 
very  boys  in  Warwickshire  dream  of  me,  Leicester  ?  "  she 
cried,  as  the  earl  made  his  appearance  between  the  trees, 
and  rapidly  advanced,  in  almost  as  great  a  maze  as  Shak- 
spere's  at  seeing  the  figure  of  the  Queen  bending  over 
what  seemed  in  the  distance  like  the  figure  of  a  man. 
"  Leicester,  here  is  thy  most  dangerous  rival  !  Do  not 
eye  his  book  !  Here's  a  lad  that  eats  his  very  venison 
pasty  seasoned  with  sonnets,  sleeps  by  the  sweetest  pool 
in  all  thy  Warwickshire  woods,  and,  to  crown  all,  breathes 
Elizabeth's  name  when  he  is  but  half  awake  !  " 

"  I  pray  Heaven  the  venison  be  not  out  of  my  park, 
got  by  night !  "  said  Leicester,  coming  up  to  the  Queen. 

"  Nay,"  she  rejoined  ;  "  we  shall  have  thee  claiming  the 
poetry  next ;  but  thou  canst  not,  for  it  is  Wyatt's,  God  rest 
his  soul !  and  not  Leicester's." 

At  the  second  sound  of  his  name  young  Shakspere  for 
the  first  time  remembered  his  errand. 

"  I  pray  you," he  said,  "are  you  my  lord  of  Leicester  ?  " 

"Yea,"  cried  the  Queen,  with  a  roguish  tone,  "and 
would  be  my  lord  of  the  Universe  an  he  had  but  his 
way  ! 

"  Then,"  continued  Shakspere,  "  here  is  a  packet  for 


82     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

your  Grace,"  and  herewith  he  pulled  out  the  hunting- 
gloves  and  presented  them  to  the  earl.  The  Queen's 
mirth  deepened,  while  a  slight  shade  of  half-amused 
chagrin  crossed  Leicester's  face,  as  the  boy  proceeded  to 
relate  the  history  of  the  packet.  "  Last  night,"  he  said, 
"  about  midnight  came  one  from  Kenilworth  to  my  father, 
John  Shakspere,  the  glover,  of  Stratford,  and  banged  us 
out  of  our  beds  at  midnight,  and  said  the  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter would  hunt  with  the  Queen  to-day,  and  his  Grace's 
brave  hunting-gloves  were  stolen,  and  his  Grace's  gentle- 
man therefore  bid  my  father  send  him  a  pair  of  the  bravest 
hunting-gloves  to  Long  Ichington  to-day  against  his 
Grace's  calling  for  them  ;  and  here  are  they,  worked  with 
his  Grace's  arms,  and  the  two  ragged  staves  of  silver  in 
white  silk,"  finished  Shakspere,  with  some  pride  in  the 
prompt  performance  of  his  commission. 

The  Queen  laughed,  as  this  narrative  concluded,  till  the 
forest  echoed,  and  rallied  Leicester  unmercifully.  Pres- 
ently she  took  up  Shakspere's  books  and  cried  :  "  Mark 
you,  my  lord  of  Leicester,  upon  what  milk  this  baby 
feeds  !  Here  is  Kit  Marlowe's  tragedy  of  Tamburlaine 
and  of  Edward  the  Second;  and  thumbed,  too;  and  do 
but  listen,  my  lord  of  Leicester,  to  this  "  ;  and  here  the 
Queen  struck  an  attitude  and  recited : 

"  And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  woe  and  wealth  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !      Say  nay  ! 

Nay,"  continued  the  Queen,  in  a  sudden  caprice,  as 
Leicester  moved  with  impatience  to  get  her  forward,  "  nay, 
thine  Elizabeth  will  not  leave  thee  thus  ;  if  thou  drinkest 


The  Earl  of  Leicester 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    83 

in  Marlowe  and  Wyatt, —  thou  hast  a  deep  eye,  look  at 
me  straight!  —  if  thou  drinkest  Marlowe  so  early,  come 
with  me ;  I  hear  my  lord  Leicester  hath  prepared  me  such 
shows  and  plays  and  poesies  at  Kenilworth  as  never  mortal 
beheld.     Mount,  young  Brakespere  —  " 

"  Shakspere,"  corrected  the  lad. 

"  Nay,  if  thou  shake  a  spear,  thou  shouldst  break  it, 
lad  ;  but  come,  Shakspere,  with  thine  Elizabeth,  to  Kenil- 
worth !  "  And  hereupon  the  Queen  mounted  with  speed 
and  dashed  off  for  Kenilworth  at  such  a  round  pace  that 
Shakspere  had  great  ado  in  following  at  a  respectful 
distance. 

And  thus  it  was  that  young  William  Shakspere  came 
to  see  the  "  princely  pleasures  of  Kenilworth,"  which  he 
afterwards  recalled  to  the  mind  of  Queen  Elizabeth  by 
Oberon's  vision  of  Cupid,  all  armed,  flying  betwixt  the 
cold  moon  and  the  earth,  in  that  passage  of  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream  which  I  read  in  my  last  lecture. 

It  is  now  proper  I  should  give  you  some  account  of 
what  these  princely  pleasures  were.  For  this  purpose  I 
have  selected  some  passages  from  a  description  of  them, 
written  by  one  of  the  most  conceited,  asinine,  mirth-pro- 
voking dandies  that  ever  handled  a  goose-quill,  whose 
acquaintance  I  cannot  bear  you  should  be  without.  I 
mean  Robert  Laneham,  who  was  usher  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's privy  council,  and  who,  as  soon  as  he  could  get 
time  from  the  Kenilworth  festivities,  wrote  a  letter  con- 
taining a  detailed  account  of  them  to  his  friend  Master 
Humphrey  Martin,  a  "  citizen  and  Merchant  of  London." 

To  introduce  this  fop  —  who,  I  have  always  thought, 
must  have  sat  as  model  for  that  heartbreaking  fantastico, 
Don  Adriano  de  Armado,  in  Shakspere's  Love's  Labour  s 
Lost  —  before  reading  from  his  account  of  the  Kenilworth 
pageants,  I  must  give  you  an  unconscious  portrait  he  has 


84     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

drawn  of  himself  In  the  last  part  of  the  same  letter  —  in 
which,  too,  many  items  of  the  domestic  life  of  the  court 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  come  out  here  and  there  : 

"  And  yet  you,  being  a  mercer,  a  merchant,  as  I  am, 

'^my  countryman  born,  and  my  good  friend  withal,  whereby 

I  know  you  are  compassioned  with  me ;  methought  it  my 

part  somewhat  to  impart  unto  you  how  it  is  here  with  me, 

and  how  I  had  my  life,  which  indeed  is  this  : 

"  A-mornings  I  rise  ordinarily  at  seven  o'clock  ;  then 
ready,  I  go  into  the  chapel ;  soon  after  eight,  I  get  me 
commonly  into  my  Lord's  chamber,  or  into  my  Lord's 
presidents.  There  at  the  cupboard,  after  I  have  eaten  the 
manchet  served  over  night  for  livery,  (for  I  dare  be  as 
bold,  I  promise  you,  as  any  of  my  friends  the  servants 
there ;  and  indeed  I  could  have  fresh,  if  I  would  tarry  ; 
but  I  am  of  wont  jolly  and  dry  a-mornings) ;  I  drink  me 
up  a  good  bowl  of  ale  ;  when  in  a  sweet  pot  it  is  defecated 
by  all  night's  standing,  the  drink  is  the  better,  take  that 
of  me ;  and  a  morsel  in  a  morning,  with  a  sound  draught, 
is  very  wholesome  and  good  for  the  eyesight ;  then  I  am 
as  fresh  all  the  forenoon  after,  as  I  had  eaten  a  whole 
piece  of  beef.  Now,  sir,  if  the  council  sit,  I  am  at  hand  ; 
wait  at  one  inch,  I  warrant  you  :  If  any  make  babbling, 
*  Peace,'  say  I,  '  wot  ye  where  ye  are  ? '  If  I  take  a  lis- 
tener, or  a  pryer  in  at  the  chinks  or  at  the  lock-hole,  I  am 
by  and  by  in  the  bones  of  him  ;  but  now  they  keep  good 
order,  they  know  me  well  enough  :  If  he  be  a  friend,  or 
such  a  one  as  I  like,  I  make  him  sit  down  by  me  on  a 
form  or  a  chest ;  let  the  rest  walk,  in  God's  name. 

"  And  here  doth  my  languages  stand  me  in  good  stead, 
my  French,  my  Spanish,  my  Dutch,  and  my  Latin  ;  some- 
time among  Ambassadors'  men,  if  their  masters  be  within 
the  council ;  sometime  with  the  Ambassador  himself,  if  he 
bid  call  his  lacquey,  or  ask  me  what's  o'clock  ;  and  I  war- 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME  85 

rant  you  I  answer  him  roundly,  that  they  marvel  to  see 
such  a  fellow  there  :  then  laugh  I,  and  say  nothing.  Din- 
ner and  supper  I  have  twenty  places  to  go  to,  and  heartily 
prayed  to ;  sometimes  I  get  to  Master  Pinner ;  by  my 
faith  a  worshipful  gentleman,  and  as  careful  for  his  charge 
as  any  her  Highness  hath.  There  find  I  always  good 
store,  of  very  good  viands  ;  we  eat,  and  be  merry,  thank 
God  and  the  Qiieen.  Himself  in  feeding  very  temperate 
and  moderate  as  you  shall  see  any;  and  yet,  by  your  leave, 
of  a  dish,  as  a  cold  pigeon  or  so,  that  hath  come  to  him 
at  meat  more  than  he  looked  for.  I  have  seen  him  even 
so  by  and  by  surfeit,  as  he  hath  plucked  off  his  napkin, 
wiped  his  knife,  and  eat  not  a  morsel  more.   .   .   . 

"  In  afternoons  and  at  nights,  sometimes  am  I  with 
the  right  worshipful  Sir  George  Howard^  as  good  a  Gentle- 
man as  any  that  lives.  And  sometime  at  my  Lady  Sid- 
ney s  chamber,  a  Noblewoman  that  I  am  as  much  bound 
unto,  as  any  poor  man  may  be  unto  so  gracious  a  Lady  ; 
and  sometime  in  some  other  place.  But  always  among 
the  Gentlewomen  by  my  good  will ;  (O  you  know  that 
comes  always  of  a  gentle  spirit)  ;  and  when  I  see  company 
according,  then  can  I  be  as  lively  too.  Sometimes  I  foot 
it  with  dancing,  now  with  my  gittern,  or  else  with  my 
cittern,  then  at  the  virginals  ;  you  know  nothing  comes 
amiss  to  me.  Then  carol  I  up  a  song  withal ;  that  by  and 
by  they  come  flocking  about  me  like  bees  to  honey  ;  and 
ever  they  cry,  '  Another,  good  Laneham^  another  !  '      Shall 

I  tell  you  .?     When  I  see  Mistress (Ah  !  see  a  mad 

knave  ;  I  had  almost  told  all  !)  that  she  gives  me  once  but 
an  eye  or  an  ear ;  why,  then,  man  am  I  blest ;  my  grace, 
my  courage,  my  cunning  is  doubled  ;  she  says  sometime, 
'  She  likes  it,'  and  then  I  like  it  much  the  better  ;  it  doth 
me  good  to  hear  how  well  I  can  do.  And  to  say  truth ; 
what  with  mine  eye,  as  I  can  amorously  glint  it,  with  my 


86   SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Spanish  sospires,  my  French  heighes,  mine  Italian  dulcets, 
my  Dutch  hones  [D.  hoofshied,  courtship],  my  double 
releas  [roulays  —  roulades?],  my  high  reaches,  my  fine 
feigning,  my  deep  diapason,  my  wanton  warbles,  my  run- 
ning, my  timing,  my  turning,  and  my  twinkling,  I  can 
gracify  the  matters  as  well  as  the  proudest  of  them,  and 
was  never  yet  stained,  I  thank  God  :  by  my  troth,  coun- 
tryman, it  is  sometimes  high  midnight  ere  I  can  get  from 
them.  And  thus  have  I  told  you  most  of  my  trade,  all 
the  livelong  day  ;  what  will  you  more,  God  save  the  Queen 
and  my  Lord.      I  am  well,  I  thank  you. 

"  Herewith  meaned  I  fully  to  bid  ye  farewell,  had  not 
this  doubt  come  to  my  mind,  that  here  remains  a  doubt  in 
you  which  1  ought  (methought)  in  anywise  to  clear. 
Which  is,  ye  marvel  perchance  to  see  me  so  bookish. 
Let  me  tell  you  in  few  words  :  I  went  to  school,  forsooth, 
both  at  Paul's  and  also  at  St,  Anthony's;  In  the  fifth 
form  passed  iEsop's  fables,  I  wis,  read  Terence  vos  ist^ec 
intro  anferte,  and  began  with  my  Virgil  Tityre  tu  patulae. 
I  conned  my  rules,  could  construe  and  parse  with  the  best 
of  them ;  since  that,  as  partly  you  know,  have  I  traded  the 
feat  of  merchandise  in  sundry  countries,  and  so  got  me 
languages,  which  do  so  little  hinder  my  Latin  as,  I  thank 
God,  have  much  encreased  it.  I  have  leisure  sometimes, 
when  I  tend  not  upon  the  council ;  whereby  now  I  look 
on  one  book,  now  on  another.  Stories  I  delight  in ;  the 
more  ancient  and  rare,  the  more  irksome  to  me.  If  I  told 
you  I  liked  William  of  Malmesbury  so  well,  because  of 
his  diligence  and  antiquity,  perchance  you  would  construe 
it  because  I  love  malmsey  so  well :  But  faith,  it  is  not 
so ;  for  sift  I  no  more  sack  and  sugar  (and  yet  never  but 
with  company)  than  I  do  malmsey,  I  should  not  blush  so 
much  adays  as  I  do  ;  you  know  my  mind. 

Well,  once  again,  fare  ye  heartily  well. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     87 

"  From  the  Court,  At  the  City  of  Worcester,  the 
twentieth  of  August,  1575. 

"  Your  Countryman,  companion,  and  friend  assuredly  ; 
Mercer,  Merchant-adventurer,  and  Clerk  of  the  Council 
chamber-door,  and  also  Keeper  of  the  same  : 

"  El  Principe  Negro,  Par  me,  R.  L.  Gent.  Mercer  "  ^ 
(ending  with  a  Latin  verse). 

This  same  coxcomb  has  much  to  say  of  the  eatables  and 
drinkables  : 

"  And  how  bountiful  Ceres  in  provision  was,  guess  by 
this,  that  in  little  more  than  three  days  space,  seventy-two 
tuns  of  ale  and  beer  were  piped  up  quite ;  .  .  .  and  yet 
the  Master  Comptroller,  Master  Cofferer,  and  divers 
Officers  of  the  court,  some  honorable  and  sundry  right 
worshipful  were  placed  at  Warwick,  for  more  room  in  the 
castle.  But  here  was  no  ho  !  Master  Martin,  in  devout 
drinking  alway  ;  that  brought  lack  unlocked  for ;  which 
being  known  to  the  worshipful  my  lord's  good  neighbors, 
came  there  in  two  days'  space,  from  sundry  friends,  a  relief 
of  forty  tuns,  till  a  new  supply  was  got  again  ;  and  then 
to  our  drinking  afresh  as  fast  as  ever  we  did." 

I  now  read  a  passage  or  two  to  show  what  young  Will 
Shakspere  saw  or  might  have  seen  as  he  rode  behind 
Queen  Bess  and  Leicester  toward  the  Great  Gate  of  Kenil- 
worth  Castle. 

"On  Saturday  the  ninth  of  July,"  says  Laneham,  "at 
Long  Ichington,  a  town  and  lordship  of  my  Lord's, 
within  seven  miles  of  Killingworth,  his  Honour  made  her 
Majesty  great  cheer  at  dinner,  and  pleasant  pastime  in 
hunting  by  the  way  after,  that  it  was  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  ere  her  Highness  came  to  Killingworth  ;  where  in 
the  park,  about  a  flight-shoot  from  the  brays  and  first  gate 

1  Compare  this  letter  with  Don  Adriano's  in  Lovers  Labour'' s  Lost, 

addressed  to  the  King. 


88  SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

of  the  Castle,  one  of  the  ten  Sibyls,  that  we  read  were  all 
Fatidica  and  Theobula^  as  parties  and  privy  to  the  Gods' 
gracious  good  wills,  comely  clad  in  a  pall  of  white-silk 
pronounced  a  proper  poesy  in  English  rhyme  and  metre  : 
of  effect,  how  great  gladness  her  goodness'  presence  brought 
into  every  stead  where  it  pleased  her  to  come,  and  espe- 
cially now  into  that  place  that  had  so  long  longed  after  the 
same  ;  ending  with  prophecy  certain  of  much  and  long  pros- 
perity, health  and  felicity.  This  her  Majesty  benignly 
accepting,  passed  forth  unto  the  next  gate  of  the  brays,  which 
for  length,  largeness  and  use,  (as  well  it  may  so  serve)  they 
now  call  the  tilt-yard,  where  a  porter  tall  of  person,  big  of 
limb,  and  stern  of  countenance,  wrapped  also  all  in  silk, 
with  a  club  and  keys  of  quantity  according,  had  a  rough 
speech  full  of  passions,  in  metre  aptly  made  to  the  pur- 
pose :  Whereby  (as  her  Highness  was  come  within  his 
ward)  he  burst  out  in  a  great  pang  of  impatience  to  see 
such  uncouth  trudging  to  and  fro,  such  riding  in  and  out, 
with  such  din  and  noise  of  talk  within  the  charge  of  his 
office,  whereof  he  never  saw  the  like,  nor  had  any  warning 
afore,  nor  yet  could  make  to  himself  any  cause  of  the  mat- 
ter. At  last,  upon  better  view  and  avisement,  as  he  pressed 
to  come  nearer,  confessing  anon  that  he  found  himself 
pierced  at  the  presence  of  a  personage  so  evidently  express- 
ing an  heroical  sovereignty  over  all  the  whole  estates,  and 
by  degrees  there  beside,  calmed  his  astonishment,  pro- 
claims open  gates  and  free  passage  to  all,  yields  up  his 
club,  his  keys,  his  office  and  all,  and  on  his  knees  humbly 
prays  pardon  of  his  ignorance  and  impatience  ;  which  her 
Majesty  graciously  granting,  he  caused  his  trumpeters  that 
stood  upon  the  wall  of  the  gate  there,  to  sound  up  a  tune 
of  welcome  ;  which,  beside  the  noble  noise,  was  so  much 
the  more  pleasant  to  behold,  because  these  trumpeters, 
being  six  in   number,  were  every  one  eight  feet  high,  in 


Leicester  nearest  the  Queen 

Lord  Heensdon  carries  the 
sword,  in  front 

Lord  Berleigh.  with  a  white 
stag 

Before  him  Admiral  Lord 
Howard  ?nd  other  noblemen 


A  Royal  Progress  of 
Queen  Elizabeth 

From  a  painting 


Lady  Heensdon  in  white  first 
Elizabeth,    sister     of     Lord 

Heensdon  and  wife  of  Admiral 

Howard 
Other  ladies,  yeomen  of  the 

guard,   gentlemen   pensioners, 

etc. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     89 

due  proportion  of  person  beside,  all  in  long  garments  of 
silk  suitable,  each  with  his  silvery  trumpet  of  five  feet  long, 
formed  taper-wise  and  straight  from  the  upper  part  unto 
the  lower  end,  where  the  diameter  was  16  inches  over; 
and  yet  so  tempered  by  art,  that  being  very  easy  to  the 
blast,  they  cast  forth  no  greater  noise,  nor  a  more  unpleas- 
ant sound  for  time  and  tune,  than  any  other  common 
trumpet,  be  it  never  so  artificially  formed.  These  har- 
monious blasters,  from  the  foreside  of  the  gate,  at  her 
Highness'  entrance,  where  they  began  :  walking  upon  the 
walls  unto  the  inner  (court),  had  this  music  maintained 
from  them  very  delectably,  while  her  Highness  all  along 
this  tilt-yard  rode  unto  the  inner  gate,  where  the  Lady  or 
the  Lake,  (famous  in  King  Arthur's  book)  with  two 
nymphs  waiting  upon  her,  arrayed  all  in  silks,  awaited  her 
Highness's  coming  :  From  the  midst  of  the  pool,  where 
upon  a  movable  island,  bright  blazing  with  torches,  she 
floated  to  land,  and  her  Majesty  with  a  well-penned  metre 
and  matter  after  this  sort :  (viz.)  First,  of  the  ancestry  or 
the  Castle,  who  had  been  owners  of  the  same  e'en  till  this 
day,  most  always  in  the  hands  of  the  Earls  of  Leicester  ; 
how  she  had  kept  this  Lake  since  King  Arthur's  days  ; 
and  now,  understanding  of  her  Highness's  hither  coming, 
thought  it  both  her  office  and  duty  in  humble  wise  to  dis- 
cover her  and  her  estate  :  offering  up  the  same,  her  lake, 
and  power  therein,  with  promise  of  repair  unto  the  Court. 
It  pleased  her  Highness  to  thank  this  lady,  and  to  add 
withall :  '  We  had  thought  indeed  the  Lake  had  been  ours, 
and  do  you  call  it  yours  now  ?  Well,  we  will  herein  com- 
mune more  with  you  hereafter.' 

"  This  pageant  was  closed  up  with  a  delectable  har- 
mony of  hautboys,  shalms,  cornets,  and  such  other  loud 
music,  that  held  on  while  her  Majesty  pleasantly  so 
passed  from  thence   toward   the  Castle-gate ;  whereunto. 


90  SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

from  the  base-court,  over  a  dry  valley  cast  into  a  good 
form,  there  was  framed  a  fair  bridge  of  twenty  feet  wide, 
and  seventy  feet  long,  gravelled  for  treading,  railed  on 
either  part  with  seven  posts  on  a  side,  that  stood  twelve 
feet  asunder,  thickened  between  with  well-proportioned 
turned  pillars. 

"  Upon  the  first  pair  of  posts  were  set  two  comely 
square  wire  cages,  three  feet  long,  and  two  feet  wide  ;  and 
high  in  them  live  bitterns,  curlews,  shovelers,  hernshaws, 
godwits,  and  such  like  dainty  birds,  of  the  presents  of 
Syhanus^  the  God  of  fowl.  On  the  second  pair  two  great 
silvered  bowls,  featly  apted  to  the  purpose,  filled  with 
apples,  pears,  cherries,  filberds,  walnuts,  fresh  upon  their 
branches,  and  with  oranges,  pomegranates,  lemons,  and 
pippins,  all  for  the  gifts  of  Pomona^  Goddess  of  fruits. 
The  third  pair  of  posts,  in  two  such  silvered  bowls,  had 
(all  in  ears  green  and  old)  wheat,  barley,  oats,  beans,  and 
peas,  as  the  gifts  of  Ceres.  The  fourth  post,  on  the  left 
hand,  in  a  like  silvered  bowl,  had  grapes  in  clusters,  white 
and  red,  gracified  with  their  vine  leaves  :  The  match  post 
against  it  had  a  pair  of  great  white  silver  livery  pots  for 
wine  :  and  before  them  two  glasses  of  good  capacity,  filled 
full ;  the  one  with  white  wine,  the  other  with  claret,  so 
fresh  of  colour,  and  of  look  so  lovely,  smiling  to  the  eye 
of  many,  that  by  my  faith  methought,  by  their  leering, 
they  could  have  found  in  their  hearts,  (as  the  evening  was 
hot)  to  have  kissed  them  sweetly  and  thought  it  no  sin  : 
And  these  were  the  potencial  presents  of  Bacchus^  the  God 
of  wine.  The  fifth  pair  had  each  a  fair  large  tray,  strewed 
with  fresh  grass  ;  and  in  them  conger,  hurt,  mullet,  fresh 
herrings,  oysters,  salmon,  crevis,  and  such  like,  from 
Neptunas^  God  of  the  sea.  On  the  sixth  pair  of  posts 
were  set  two  ragged  staves  of  silver,  as  my  Lord  gives 
them  in  his  arms,  beautifully  glittering  of  armour,  there- 


:3 

u 


o 


o 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     91 

upon  depending  bows,  arrows,  spears,  shield,  head-piece, 
gorget,  corslets,  swords,  targets,  and  such  like,  for  Mars* 
gifts,  the  God  of  war.  On  the  seventh  post  the  last  and 
next  to  the  Castle,  were  there  pight  two  fair  bay  branches 
of  four  feet  high,  adorned  on  all  sides  with  lutes,  viols, 
shalms,  cornets,  flutes,  recorders  and  harps,  as  the  presents 
of  PhirbuSy  the  God  of  music,  for  rejoicing  the  mind,  and 
also  of  physic,  for  health  to  the  body. 

"  Over  the  Castle-gate  was  there  fastened  a  table  beau- 
tifully garnished  above  with  her  Highness's  arms,  and 
featly  with  ivy  wreaths  bordered  about,  of  ten  feet  square  : 
the  ground  black,  whereupon,  in  large  white  capital 
Roman  fairly  written,  was  a  poem  mentioning  these  gods 
and  their  gifts,  thus  presented  unto  her  Highness  :  which, 
because  it  remained  unremoved,  at  leisure  and  pleasure  I 
took  it  out,  as  foUoweth  : 

AD    MAJESTATEM    REGIAM 

Jupiter  hue  certos  cernens  te  tendere  gressus, 
Caelicolas  PRINCEPS  actutum  convocat  Omnes : 
Obsequium  praestare  jubet  TIBI  quenque  benignum. 
Unde  suas  Sylvanus  Aves,  Pomonaque  fructus, 
Alma  Ceres  fruges,  hilarantia  vina  Liaeus, 
Neptunus  pisces,  tela  et  tutantia  Mavars, 
Suare  Melos  Phoebus^  solidamque  ;  longamque  ;   salutem. 
Dii    TIBI    REGINA    hac    (curu   sis    DIGNISSIMA) 

praebent : 
Hoc  TIBI,  cum  Domino,  dedit  se  et  werda  KENELMI. 

All  the  letters  that  mention  her  Majesty,  which  are  here 
put  in  capitals,  for  reverence  and  honour,  were  there  made 
in  gold. 

"  But  the  night  well  spent,  for  that  these  verses  by 
torch-light  could  easily  be  read ;  a   poet,  therefore,  in  a 


92     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS   FORERUNNERS 

long,  ceruleous  garment,  with  side  (i.e.,  long)  and  wide 
sleeves,  Venetianwise  drawn  up  to  his  elbow,  his  doublet 
sleeves  under  that,  of  crimson,  nothing  but  silk;  a  bay 
garland  on  his  head,  and  a  scroll  in  his  hand,  making  first 
an  humble  obeisance  at  her  Highness's  coming,  and  point- 
ing unto  every  present  as  he  spake,  the  same  were  pro- 
nounced. Thus  receiving  the  gifts,  as  she  passed,  and 
how  the  posts  might  agree  with  the  speech  of  the  poet : 
At  the  end  of  the  bridge  and  entry  of  the  gate,  was  her 
Highness  received  with  a  fresh  delicate  harmony  of  flutes, 
in  performance  of  Phcebus   presents. 

"  So  passing  into  the  inner  court,  her  Majesty  (that 
never  rides  but  alone)  there,  set  down  from  her  palfrey, 
was  conveyed  up  to  her  chamber :  When  after  did  follow 
so  great  a  peal  of  guns,  and  such  lightning  by  fire-work  a 
long  space  together,  as  though  'Jupiter  would  have  shown 
himself  to  be  no  further  behind  with  his  welcome  than  the 
rest  of  his  Gods  :  and  that  he  would  have  all  the  country 
to  know,  for  indeed  the  noise  and  flame  were  heard  and 
seen  twenty  miles  ofi\  Thus  much.  Master  Martin^  (that 
I  remember  me)  for  the  first  day's  bien  venu.  Be  you 
not  weary,  for  I  am  scant  in  the  midst  of  my  matter. 

"  On  Sunday,  the  forenoon  occupied  as  for  the 
Sabbath-day,  in  quiet  and  vacation  from  work,  and  in 
divine  service  and  preaching  at  the  parish  church :  the 
afternoon  in  excellent  music  of  sundry  sweet  instruments, 
and  in  dancing  of  Lords  and  Ladies,  and  other  worshipful 
degrees,  uttered  with  such  lively  agility,  and  commendable 
grace,  as  whether  it  might  be  more  strange  to  the  eye  or 
pleasant  to  the  mind,  for  my  part  indeed  I  could  not 
discern  ;  but  it  was  exceedingly  well,  methought,  in  both. 

"  At  night,  late,  as  though  Jupiter  the  last  night  had 
forgot  for  business,  or  forborne  for  courtesy  and  quiet, 
part  of  his  welcome  unto  her  Highness  appointed,  now 
entering  at  the  first  into  his  purpose  moderately  (as  mor- 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    93 

tals  do),  with  a  warning  piece  or  two,  proceeding  on  with 
increase,  till  at  last  the  Altitonant  (i.e..  High  Thunderer) 
displays  me  his  main  power  ;  with  blaze  of  burning  darts 
flying  to  and  fro,  beams  of  stars  coruscant,  streams  and 
hail  of  fiery  sparks,  lightnings  of  wildfire  on  water  and 
land,  flight  and  shooting  of  thunderbolts,  all  with  such 
continuance,  terror  and  vehemency,  that  the  heavens 
thundered,  the  waters  surged,  the  earth  shook,  and  in  such 
sort  surely,  as  had  we  not  been  assured  that  the  fulminant 
Deity  was  all  hot  in  amity,  and  could  not  otherwise  testify 
his  welcome  unto  her  Highness,  it  would  have  made  me 
for  my  part,  as  hardy  as  I  am,  very  vengeably  afraid.  This 
ado  lasted  until  the  midnight  was  passed  that  it  seemed 
well  with  me  soon  after,  when  I  found  me  in  my  cabin. 
And  this  for  the  second  day. 

"  Monday  was  hot,  and  therefore  her  Highness  kept  in 
till  five  o'clock  in  the  evening,  what  time  it  pleased  her  to 
ride  forth  into  the  chase  to  hunt  the  hart  of  force  :  which 
found  anon,  and  after  sore  chased,  and  chafed  by  the  hot 
pursuit  of  the  hounds,  was  fain  of  fine  force,  at  last  to  take 
sou. 

The  following  passage  I  take  from  Gascoigne,  who 
relates  the  festivities  at  length,  and  who,  with  Goldingham 
and  Ferrers,  had  been  sent  for  to  arrange  the  poetic 
devices  and  addresses. 

There  met  her  in  the  forest,  as  she  came  from  hunting, 
one  clad  like  a  savage  man,  all  in  ivy,  who,  seeming  to 
wonder  at  such  a  presence,  fell  to  quarrelling  with  Jupiter 
as  followeth : 

"  Ho  Echo  —  Echo^  ho, 

where  art  thou,  Echo^  where  ? 
Why,  Echo^  friend,  where  dwell'st  thou  now ! 
thou  wont'st  to  harbour  here. 
i^Echo  answered.) 

Here.   .   .   . 


94    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS   FORERUNNERS 

"  But  thou  me  help, 

I  say  my  heart  will  break ; 
And  therefore  even  of  courtesy, 

I  pray  thee,  Echo  speak. 
Echo.  Speak. 

"  I  speak  ?  yes,  that  I  will, 

unless  thou  be  too  coy. 
Then  tell  me  first  what  is  the  cause 
that  all  the  people  joy  ? 
Echo.  Joy- 

"  Joy  ?   surely  that  is  so, 

as  may  full  well  be  seen  : 
But  wherefore  do  they  so  rejoice  ? 
is  it  for  King  or  Queen  ? 
Echo.  Queen. 

"  Queen  ?  what,  the  Queen  of  Heaven  \ 
they  knew  her  long  agone : 
No,  sure,  some  Queen  on  earth, 

whose  like  was  never  none. 
Echo.  None. 

*'  O  then  it  seems  the  Queen 

of  England  for  to  be, 
Whose  graces  make  the  Gods  to  grudge  : 
methinks  it  should  be  she. 
Echo.  She. 

"And  is  it  she  indeed  ? 

then  tell  what  was  meant 
By  every  show  that  yet  was  seen, 
good  Echo  be  content. 
Echo.  Content." 

And    here    is   a    scene   from    the    domestic    life     of    our 
ancestors  —  all   too   common  —  which   makes    us    a    little 


g©?'.'-  .,'i''  ■ 

,  :^_^ 

-"■"■■ 

'^^^"""^^fc 

!'    ^ 

^ 

■V 


.*<'. 


J'  )Vt^u.-"i:  0.-J. 


CKOnCE   GASCOIGXE. 


George  G 


rge  oascoigne 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    95 

comfort  that  the  times  have  surely  bettered  in  some  mat- 
ters since  then.      Laneham's  record  says  : 

"  Thursday^  the  fourteenth  of  this  July,  and  the  Sixth 
day  of  her  Majesty's  coming,  a  great  sort  of  Ban-dogs 
were  there  tied  in  the  outer  court,  and  thirteen  bears 
in  the  inner.  Whosoever  made  the  pannel,  there  were 
enough  for  the  guest,  and  one  for  challenge,  an  need  were. 
A  wight  of  great  wisdom  and  gravity  seemed  their  fore- 
man to  be,  had  it  come  to  a  jury ;  but  it  fell  out  that  they 
were  caused  to  appear  there  upon  no  such  matter,  but 
only  to  answer  to  an  ancient  quarrel  between  them  and  the 
Ban-dogs,  in  a  cause  of  controversy  that  had  long  de- 
pended, been  obstinately  full  often  debated,  with  sharp  and 
biting  arguments  on  both  sides  and  could  never  be  decided  : 
grown  now  to  so  marvellous  a  malice,  that  with  spiteful 
upbraidings  and  uncharitable  chaffings,  always  they  fret,  as 
any  where  the  one  can  hear,  see,  or  smell  the  other :  and 
indeed  at  utter  deadly  feud.  Many  a  maimed  member 
(God  wot)  bloody  face  and  a  torn  coat,  hath  the  quarrel 
cost  between  them ;  so  far  likely  the  less  yet  now  to  be 
appeased,  as  there  wants  not  partakers  to  back  them  on 
both  sides. 

"  Well,  Sir,  the  bears  were  brought  forth  into  the 
court,  the  dogs  set  to  them  to  argue  the  points  even 
face  to  face  ;  they  had  learned  counsel  also  on  both  parts. 
Very  fierce  both  the  one  and  the  other,  and  eager  in 
argument :  if  the  dog  in  pleading  should  pluck  the 
bear  by  the  throat,  the  bear  with  traverse  would  claw  him 
again  by  the  scalp  :  Confess  an  he  list,  but  avoid  he  could 
not,  that  was  bound  to  the  bar ;  and  his  counsel  told  him 
that  it  could  be  to  him  no  policy  in  pleading.  Therefore 
thus  with  'fending  and  proving,  with  plucking  and  tug- 
ging, scratching  and  biting,  by  plain  tooth  and  nail  on  one 
side  and  the  other,  such  expense  of  blood  and  leather  was 


<^6     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

there  between  them,  as  a  month's  licking,  I  ween,  will  not 
recover ;  and  yet  remain  as  far  out  as  ever  they  were.  It 
was  a  sport  very  pleasant  of  these  beasts  ;  to  see  the  bear 
with  his  pink  eyes  leering  after  his  enemies'  approach,  the 
nimbleness  and  wait  of  the  dog,  to  take  his  advantage, 
and  the  force  and  experience  of  the  bear,  again  to  avoid 
the  assault :  If  he  was  bitten  in  one  place,  how  he  would 
pinch  in  another  to  get  free ;  that  if  he  was  taken  once, 
then  what  shift  with  biting,  with  clawing,  with  roaring, 
tossing  and  tumbling,  he  would  work  to  wind  himself  from 
them  ;  and  when  he  was  loose,  to  shake  his  ears  twice  or 
thrice  with  the  blood  and  slaver  about  his  physiognomy, 
was  a  matter  of  a  goodly  relief. 

"  As  this  sport  was  held  at  day-time,  in  the  Castle,  so 
was  there  abroad  at  night  very  strange  and  sundry  kinds 
of  fire-works,  compelled  by  cunning  to  fly  to  and  fro,  and 
to  mount  very  high  into  the  air  upward,  and  also  to  burn 
unquenchably  beneath  the  water,  contrary,  ye  wot,  to  fire's 
kind :  This  intermingled  with  a  great  peal  of  guns,  which 
all  gave  both  to  the  ear  and  to  the  eye  the  greater  grace 
and  delight,  for  that  with  such  order  and  art  they  were 
tempered,  touching  time  and  continuance,  that  was  about 
two  hours  space." 

But  here  we  have  a  sweeter  scene,  which  carries  us 
into  the  fairy-land  of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  The 
Queen  is  standing  on  the  bridge,  looking  off  over  the  lake. 
The  time  is  late  afternoon,  the  temperature  is  heavenly, 
the  green  leaves  are  taking  on  that  deeper  air  which  they 
assume  towards  the  coming  of  the  evening,  the  world  is  so 
tranquil  that  voices  and  all  sounds  ring  musically  between 
the  green  walls  of  the  foliage  and  the  gray  walls  of  the 
castle. 

"...  and  the  Lady,  by  and  by,  with  her  two  nymphs 
floating  upon  her  moveable  Islands,  Triton  on  his  mermaid 


a 

s 


o 


o 


< 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     97 

skimming  by,  approached  towards  her  Highness  on  the 
bridge, —  as  well  to  declare  that  her  Majesty's  presence 
had  so  graciously  thus  wrought  her  deliverance,  as  also  to 
excuse  her  not  coming  to  court  as  she  promised,  and  chiefly 
to  present  her  Majesty,  as  a  token  of  her  duty  and  good 
heart,  for  her  Highness'  recreation,  with  this  gift :  which 
was,  Arion^  that  excellent  and  famous  musician  ;  in  tire 
and  appointment  strange,  well  seeing  to  his  person,  riding 
aloft  upon  his  old  friend  the  dolphin,  that  from  head  to 
tail  was  four  and  twenty  feet  long,  and  swam  hard  by  these 
Islands.  Herewith,  Arion^  for  these  great  benefits,  after 
a  few  well-couched  words  unto  her  Majesty  of  thanks- 
giving, in  supplement  of  the  same,  began  a  delectable 
ditty  of  a  song  well  apted  to  a  melodious  noise  ;  com- 
pounded of  six  several  instruments,  all  covert,  casting 
sound  from  the  dolphin's  belly  within  :  Arion^  the  seventh, 
sitting  thus  singing  (as  I  say)  without. 

"  Now,  Sir,  the  ditty  in  metre  so  aptly  endited  to  the 
matter,  and  after  by  voice  deliciously  delivered.  The 
song,  by  a  skilful  artist  into  his  parts  so  sweetly  sorted  ; 
each  part  in  his  instrument  so  clean  and  sharply  touched  ; 
every  instrument  again  in  his  kind  so  excellently  tunable  ; 
and  this  in  the  evening  of  the  day,  resounding  from  the 
calm  waters  where  the  presence  of  her  Majesty,  and  long- 
ing to  listen,  had  utterly  damped  all  noise  and  din  ;  the 
whole  harmony  conveyed  in  time,  tune,  and  temper  thus 
incomparably  melodious ;  with  what  pleasure,  {Master 
Martin)  with  what  sharpness  of  conceit,  with  what  lively 
delight,  this  might  pierce  into  the  hearers'  hearts,  I  pray 
ye  imagine  yourselves,  as  ye  may  ;  for  so  God  judge  me, 
by  all  the  wit  and  cunning  I  have,  I  cannot  express,  I 
promise  you." 

In  these  scenes  I  cannot  help  finding  everywhere  the 
suggestions  which,  in  after  years,  blossomed  out  into  the 


98     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  First,  for  Theseus  and  Hip- 
polyta  hunting  in  the  Grecian  woods,  we  have  Queen  Bess 
and  Leicester  hunting  in  the  Warwickshire  forests.  Again, 
a  passage  in  Laneham's  letter  (which  I  did  not  read)  relates 
how  some  of  the  honest  souls  of  Coventry  —  which  was 
but  four  miles  from  Kenilworth  —  came  over  one  day, 
and  sought  out  Queen  Bess,  and  offered  to  play  for  her 
one  of  the  good  old  Coventry  plays;  and  I  always  fancy 
that  young  Will  Shakspere  saw  these  men  of  Coventry  on 
this  errand,  and  that  he  afterwards  converted  them  into 
that  sweet  company  —  of  Bottom  the  weaver,  and  Snug, 
and  Quince,  and  Flute  the  bellows-mender  —  who  play 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe  before  Theseus.  The  ranting  of 
Pyramus,  "  Approach,  ye  furies  fell,"  and  the  like,  al- 
ways makes  me  think  that  it  must  be  a  relic  of  young 
Shakspere's  perusal  of  Marlowe's  Tamburlaine  and  Kyd's 
Spanish  Tragedy ,  on  long  summer  holidays  in  the  War- 
wickshire woods  ;  while  the  fantastic  and  unreal  woes  of 
Lysander  and  Demetrius  and  Hermia  and  Helena  seem 
to  be  the  man's  amplifications  of  the  boy's  old  reveries 
when  he  would  tire  of  his  book  and  lie  flat  and  look  into 
the  upward  depths  of  the  green  oaks  and  dream  of  won- 
ders and  love-scenes  that  might  go  on  in  the  woods. 

Let  us  now  fancy  that  after  having  beheld  this  scene 
Shakspere  returned  to  his  home,  to  give  an  account  of  his 
adventures  to  his  parents.  But  on  his  way  back  he  could 
not  forbear  going  by  Warwick,  the  county  town,  only  four 
miles  from  Kenilworth,  where  a  great  crowd  of  the  country 
people,  anxious  to  get  a  sight  of  Queen  Bess,  had  collected, 
to  remain  during  the  nineteen  days  throughout  which  the 
Kenilworth  festivities  lasted.  Of  course  Shakspere  knew 
that  in  such  a  crowd  all  manner  ofjugglers  and  playerswould 
be  found  driving  their  trades.  He  is  mad  to  see  one  of 
the  plays.     So,  as  soon  as  he  canters  into  Warwick,  he 


g 


4-* 

3 
O 

U 

c 

o 


-a 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    99 

makes  for  the  inn.  Here  he  finds  that  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  some  strolHng  players  are  to  perform  an 
interlude  of  John  Heywood's,  called  The  Four  P's.  The 
hour  which  is  to  pass  before  they  begin  seems  like  an 
eternity  to  the  boy  ;  but  it  finally  expires,  and  at  the  first 
sounding  of  the  horn  he  pays  his  penny  and  passes  into 
the  yard  of  the  inn.  As  you  walk  with  him  into  this 
yard  you  see  the  original  model  upon  which  our  modern 
theatres  are  built.  The  inn-yard  of  the  time  was  a  sort 
of  inner  court,  enclosed  by  the  rooms  of  the  inn,  which 
looked  down  upon  it,  with  balconies  running  along  each 
side,  thus  : 


j^;^>Pal 


:■;^•':.;.r.■v•>xi^:V:v;•^V••■;^ 


Jir^!?ni 


m<u 


i'.-.'-'/.-Av'i 


c. 


a,  End  balcony  used  as  a  stage  ;   b,  side  balcony  used  by 
gentry ;  c,  courtyard  used  by  the  common  people. 


Shakspere  stands  on  the  ground  of  the  yard,  along  with 
the  most  of  the  audience.  Here  you  see  the  original  of 
two  terms  afterwards  in  very  common  use  :  when  Shak- 
spere speaks  of  a  passage  which  tickles  the  ears  of  the 
groundlings,  he  means  by  "  groundlings  "  those  who  stood 
on  the  ground  in  what  was  long  called  the  "  yard,"  even 
in  the  theatres,  but  afterwards  came  to  be  known  as  the 
**  pit."     The  players  are  on  the  balcony  at  the  rear  ;  more 


loo    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

pretentious  visitors  among  the  audience  are  seated  in  the 
rooms  here  on  the  sides  and  at  the  back  of  the  yard,  look- 
ing through  the  windows  at  the  performance ;  hence  in 
.Shakspere's  time  the  "  boxes,"  as  we  call  them,  and 
loges  of  the  theatres  built  in  London  were  called  "  rooms." 
At  the  time  when  young  Shakspere  is  going  into  this 
inn-yard,  i.e.,  in  1575,  you  should  remember,  no  theatres 
are  built.  It  was  not  until  the  following  year,  1576,  that 
James  Burbage  erected  the  first  theatre  in  London.  But, 
as  I  said,  while  the  common  sort  are  here  standing  in  the 
yard  of  the  inn,  and  more  pretentious  ones  are  in  the 
rooms,  the  gallants  and  high-fliers  are  seated  on  stools  on 
the  balcony  or  stage,  right  in  the  midst  of  the  players.^ 
Presently  the  horn  sounds  for  the  third  time,  and  this  is 
the  signal  for  the  performance  to  begin. 

This  interlude,  T'he  Four  P's^  by  the  way,  represents 
the  spirit  of  the  first  formal  English  Comedy.  It  was 
written  probably  as  early  as  1530,  and  when  Shakspere 
was  beginning  to  write  in  1598,  decidedly  better  plays  in 
form  were  being  produced  here  and  there  ;  but  it  fairly 
represents  the  plays  we  may  regard  as  formative  in  Shak- 
spere's  plastic  time,  the  kind  of  play  he  would  have  been 
likely  to  see  in  the  inn-yards  of  Coventry  and  Warwick 
and  Stratford  when  he  was  a  boy. 

The  interlude  was  originally  a  mere  short  scrap  to  be 
played  for  amusement  between  the  acts  of  a  mystery  play 
or  morality ;  but  Heywood  advanced  it  into  an  indepen- 
dent sort  of  theatrical  representation.  This  John  Hey- 
wood is  mentioned  by  our  old  friend  Puttenham  as  "  John 

1  This  golden  Asse,  in  this  hard  iron  age, 
Aspirith  now  to  sit  upon  the  stage  : 
Lookes  round  about,  then  views  his  glorious  selfe. 
Throws  money  here  and  there,  swearing  hang  pelfe. 

The  Young  Gallant' s  Whirligig. 


John  Heywood 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   loi 

Heywood  the  Epigrammatist  who  for  the  myrth  and 
quicknesse  of  his  conceits  more  than  for  any  good  learning 
was  in  him  come  to  be  well  benefited  by  the  King." 

I  may  mention  that  this  interlude  particularly  con- 
nects itself  with  Shakspere  by  the  fact  that  in  one  part  of 
it  you  will  find  the  suggestion  which  Shakspere  probably 
converted  into  that  strange  comical-dreadful  soliloquy 
of  the  Porter  in  Macbeth  who  dreamed  he  was  porter  of 
hell,  and  describes  the  people  whom  he  let  in  the  gate. 
In  fact,  with  a  good  deal  of  confidence  we  may  fancy  our- 
selves sitting  in  a  Warwickshire  inn-yard  three  hundred 
years  ago,  with  the  boy  Will  Shakspere,  listening  to  this 
very  play. 

Here,  then,  advance  the  four  P's  upon  the  balcony  of 
the  inn  :  the  four  P's  being  The  P aimer ^  The  Pardoner ^ 
The  Poticary^  and  The  Pedler. 

They  straightway  fall  to  flouting  each  other,  and  verily 
seem  to  be  a  quartette  of  as  precious  rascals  as  the  world 
could  afford.  And  this  reminds  me  to  mention  that  in 
reading  from  this  old  play  I  shall  not  feel  quite  comfor- 
table without  deprecating  any  appearance  of  sympathy  with 
what  will  seem,  until  you  get  to  the  end  of  it,  its  flippant 
treatment  of  great  matters.  We  shall  hear  much  joking 
about  the  Protestant  idea  of  hell,  and  as  much  about  the 
Catholic  idea  of  pardon.  Neither  of  these  will  admit  of 
any  application  now;  and  we  may  all  legitimately  allow 
ourselves  to  be  amused  with  these  old-time  witticisms  of 
Heywood  without  the  discomfort  of  possible  irreverence, 
in  which,  as  to  either  Protestant  or  Catholic,  your  present 
lecturer  would  be  the  last  to  join,  if  we  reflect,  first,  that 
this  old  sixteenth-century  audience,  among  whom  we  are 
now  sitting  along  with  young  Will  Shakspere  to  witness 
this  interlude,  are  really  mere  children  who  are  playing 
with  the  names  of  things  which  they  do  not  understand,  as 


I02     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

mere  toys ;  and,  secondly,  that  there  is  really  a  moral 
purpose  involved  in  the  presentation,  as  developed  in  the 
last  lines.  Moreover,  and  most  important  of  all,  I  ask 
you  to  observe  all  through  how  infinitely  above  this  child- 
ish flippancy  is  Shakspere's  attitude  towards  all  reverential 
things.  Shakspere,  indeed,  makes  us  hate  the  sin  and  love 
the  sinner.  Heywood  is  not  so  large.  Shakspere  is  here 
moral  in  the  highest  degree.  How  we  misdirect  our 
spiritual  charities !  The  novel  shows  us  a  good  man 
struggling,  and  we  sympathise  with  him,  and  hate  the 
weak  fools  in  the  book.  But  why  should  we  be  sorry  for 
a  good  man,  in  whatever  stress  ?  Let  us  be  sorry  for 
nothing  in  the  world  but  a  bad  man.  Let  us  extend  our 
sympathetic  charity  to  him  who  is  spiritually  weak.  Why 
should  we  weep  for  Little  Nell  ?  Let  us  weep  for  the  old 
gambler.     This  is  Shakspere's  morality. 

A  thousand  details  of  the  life  of  the  time  come  out  in 
this  old  interlude  : 

Palmer.     I  am  a  Palmer,  as  ye  se, 
Which  of  my  lyfe  much  part  have  spent 
In  many  a  fayre  and  farre  countrie, 
As  pilgrims  do,  of  good  intent. 
At  Hierusalem  have  I  bene. 
Before  Chryste's  blessed  sepulture, 
The  mount  of  Calvary  have  I  sene, 
A  holy  place  ye  may  be  sure. 
To  Josaphat  and  Olyvete 
On  fote,  god  wote,  I  wente  ryghte  bare 
Many  a  salt  tere  dyd  I  swete 
Before  thys  carkes  coulde  come  thare. 

He  describes  the  places  where  he  has  been,  the  saints* 
shrines,  etc. 


A  Poticary  and  a  Pardoner 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    103 

Pardoner.     And  when  ye  have  gone  as  far  as  ye  can 
For  all  your  labour  and  gostely  intente 
Ye  will  cum  home  as  wyse  as  ye  wente. 

Palmer.      Why,  syr,  dyspyse  ye  pylgrymage  ? 

Pardoner.      Nay  :   I  not  dyspraise  it 
But  yet  I  discomende  your  wit : 
I  pray  you  shew  what  the  cause  is 
Ye  wente  all  these  pylgrymages  ? 

Palmer.      Forsoth  thys  lyfe  I  dyd  begyn 
To  rydde  the  bondage  of  my  syn. 

Pardoner.      No  we  is  your  owne  confessions  lykely 
To  make  yourselfe  a  fole  quyckely. 
Nowe  marke  in  this  what  wyt  ye  have, 
To  seeke  so  farre  and  helpe  so  nye  : 
Even  here  at  home  is  remedy ; 
For  at  your  dore  myselfe  doth  dwell 
Who  could  have  saved  your  soule  as  well 
As  all  your  wyde  wandrynge  shall  do 
Though  ye  wente  thryes  to  Jericho. 

Palmer.      But  let  us  here  fryst  what  ye  are  ? 

Pardoner.     Truly  I  am  a  Pardoner. 

Palmer.      Truly  a  pardoner  !   that  may  be  true ; 
But  a  true  pardoner  doth  not  ensew. 
Ryght  selde  is  it  sene,  or  never 
That  treuth  and  pardoners  dwell  together. 

Pardoner.      I  say  yet  agayne  my  pardons  are  suche 
That  yf  there  were  a  thousand  soules  on  a  hepe 
I  would  brynge  them  all  to  heven  as  good  chepe 
As  ye  have  brought  yourselfe  on  pylgrymage. 

After   some  more  squabbling   the   Palmer   addresses   the 
Pedler : 

What  the  devyll  hast  thou  there  at  thy  back  ? 

Pedler.     What  dost  thou  not  knowe,  that  every  pedler 
In  all  kinds  of  trifles  must  be  a  medler  ? 


I04    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Specyally  in  women's  tryflinges  ; 
Those  use  we  cheefly  above  all  thinges. 
.   .   .   Gloves,  pynnes,  combes,  glasses  unspottyd. 
Pomanders,  hookes,  and  lasses  knotted  ; 
^  Brooches,  rynges  and  all  manner  of  bedes, 
Laces  round  and  flat,  for  women's  hedes  ; 
Nedyls,  threde,  thymbell,  shers,  and  all  suche  knackes  ; 
Where  lovers  be,  no  such  thynges  lackes  ; 
Sypers,  (Cyprus)  swathbandes,  rybandes  and  sieve  laces, 
Gyrdyls,  kyves,  purses  and  pyncases.   .   .   . 

Pardoner.      I  praye  you  tell  me  what  causeth  this, 
That  women  after  theyr  arysynge 
Be  so  longe  in  theyr  apparelyng  ? 

Pedler.      Forsoth,  women  have  many  lettes. 
And  they  be  masked  in  many  nettes  ; 

And  he  goes  on  to  specify  these  "  lets  "  and  "  nets  "  : 

As  frontlettes,  fyllettes,  partlettes,  and  bracelettes  j 
And  then  theyr  bonettes  and  theyr  poynettes. 
By  these  lettes  and  nettes  the  lette  is  suche. 
That  spede  is  small  whan  haste  is  muche. 

Then  the  Pedler  attempts  to  sell  them  his  wares ;  but  the 

Palmer.     Nay,  by  my  trouth,  we  be  lyke  fryers; 
We  are  but  beggars,  we  be  no  byers. 

Pedler.     Well,  though  this  journey  acquyte  no  coste. 
Yet  thynke  I  not  my  labour  loste; 
Devyse  what  pastyme  that  ye  thynke  beste. 
And  make  ye  sure  to  find  me  prest. 

Pot'tcary.      Why  ?   be  ye  so  unyversall. 
That  ye  can  do  what  so  ever  ye  shall  ? 

Here  this  is  a  kind  of  interlude  in  the  interlude,^  when  we 

1  In  the  anonymous  play  of  Sir  "exhibiting  a  play  within  a  play." 
Thomas  More  (1590?)  My  Lord  (Why  not  a  play  within  a  play 
Cardinal's  players   are  introduced,      within  a   play,  etc.  ?)  When  asked 


^•*9 


STAGE  RIKJiCTiU.VS  rOB  THK  MORrALITy  or  THE  CVSTIJ':  OK  COOD  PKKSE^KRAACK.  , 


Stage  Directions  for  a  Morality 
From  the  "  Cm'entry  Mysteries" 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   105 

have  a  perfect  exhibition  of  the  modern  circus  clown. 
They  proceed  to  devise  some  pastime ;  the  Poticary  says 
to  the  Pedler : 

Then  tell  me  thys,  are  you  perfyt  in  drynkynge  ? 

Pedler.      Perfyt  in  drynkynge,  as  may  be  wysht  by  thynkynge. 

Poticary.     Then  after  your  drynking,  how  fall  ye  to  wynkynge? 

Pedler.      Syr,  after  drynkynge,  whyh  the  shot  is  tynkynge, 
Some  hedes  be  swynkynge,  but  myn  will  be  synkynge, 
And  upon  drynkynge,  myn  eyse  will  be  pynkynge, 
For  wynkynge  to  drynkynge  is  alway  lynkynge. 

Poticary.     If  ye  were  desired  thereto, 
I  pray  you  tell  me  can  you  synge  ? 

Pedler.     Syr,  I  have  som  syght  in  syngynge. 

Poticary.      But  is  your  brest  *  anythynge  swete. 

Here  they  fall  to  discussing  the  respective  merits  of  their 
crafts  again,  till  presently  the 

Poticary.     My  craft  is  such  that  I  can  ryght  well, 
Sende  my  fryndes  to  heven  and  myselfe  to  helle. 
.   .   .   But  for  good  order,  at  a  worde, 
Twayne  of  us  must  wayte  on  the  thyrde 
And  unto  that  I  do  agree 
For  bothe  you  twayne  shall  wayte  on  me. 

Pardoner.     Nay,  nay,  my  frende,  that  will  not  be  : 
I  am  too  good  to  wayte  on  thee. 

And  it  is  only  now  that  the  real  plot  of  the  play  emerges. 
The  four  fall  to  disputing  which  is  the  worthiest  of  them  ; 
and  in  order  to  determine,  they  agree  to  try  their  skill*  in 

what  plays  are  ready  for  representa-  Dives  and  Lazarus,  Lusty  Juventus, 

tion,  the  player  replies:    "  Divers,  and  the  Marriage  of  Wit  and  Wis- 

my  lord;    The  Cradle  of  Security,  dom.'*'' 

Hit    nail    o'    tP    head.    Impatient  l  Cf.  Twelfth  Night,  "hrcsC 
Poverty,    The  Play    of  Four    P's, 


io6     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS   FORERUNNERS 

something  in  which  they  are  all  commonly  proficient.  It 
is  difficult  at  first  to  find  this  something;  but  presently 
the  Pedler  solves  the  trouble  :  he  says  they  are  all  pro- 
ficient in  lying  ;  and  they  then  agree  that  he  who  shall  tell 
the  most  monstrous  falsehood  shall  be  accounted  best 
man.  Only  compare,  in  passing,  all  this  low  plane  with 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ! 

Palmer.      By  mi  Lady,  and  I  wolde  be  loth 
To  wayt  on  the  better  of  you  both. 

Pedler.     Yet  be  ye  senser,  for  all  thys  dout, 
Thys  waytynge  must  be  brought  about ; 
Men  cannot  prosper  wylfully  ledde ; 
All  thynge  decay  when  there  is  no  hedde. 
Synnes  ye  cannot  agree  in  voyce 
Who  shall  be  hed,  there  is  no  choyce 
But  to  devyse  some  maner  thynge 
Wherein  ye  all  be  lyke  conneynge. 
And  now  have  I  found  one  masterye 
That  ye  can  do  indyfferently  ; 
And  is  nather  sellynge  nor  byenge 
But  even  onely  very  lyenge. 
And  all  ye  three  can  lye  as  wel 
As  can  the  falsest  devyll  in  hell. 

The  Pedler  goes  on  to  add  that  this  is  a  matter  in  which 
he  can  be  judge,  having  some  skill  in  it  himself;  where- 
upon they  elect  him  umpire  and  proceed  to  try  their  skill. 
There  is  not  time  for  detail,  and  we  must  come  to  the 
main  point,^ 

Presently  the  Poticary  happens  to  remark,  quite  inciden- 
tally and  merely  as  a  sarcastic  exclamation,  to  the  Palmer, 
Forsooth  ye  be  an  honest  man^  whereupon  the  others  cry  out 

1  See  the  subsequent  chapter  on  "The   Doctors  of  Shakspere's  Time" 
for  a  catalogue  of  quaint  drugs  here  enumerated  by  the  Poticary. 


!!  i;  I.  !.'  M  '  >  I    r  II  , 


-J 


A  View  of  the  Pit's  Mouth 
From  the  "  Coventry  Mysteries''' 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   107 

that  that  is  certainly  the  most  prodigious  falsehood  that 
could  be  told ;  but  it  is  after  discussion  adjudged  not  to 
count,  as  being  an  unpremeditated  accident,  and  the  Par- 
doner proceeds  to  vaunt  a  wonderful  rescue  of  a  soul 
which  he  recently  performed ;  and  this  is  the  reason  of 
being  of  the  play. 

Well  syr  then  marke  what  I  can  say : 
I  have  been  a  pardoner  many  a  day, 
And  done  greater  cures  gostely 
Than  ever  he  dyd  bodily. 
Namely  thys  one,  which  ye  shall  here, 
Of  one  departed  within  thys  seven  yere. 

A  female  friend  of  his  had  died  suddenly. 

.   .   .  Nothynge  could  relese  my  woe 
Tyll  I  had  tried  even  out  of  hande 
In  what  estate  her  soule  dyd  stande. 

He  goes  first  to  Purgatory,  but  she  was  not  there :  so 

...   I  from  thens  to  hell  that  nyght 

To  help  thys  woman  yf  I  myght. 

And  fyrst  to  the  devyll  that  kept  the  gate 

I  came  and  spoke  after  this  rate. 

All  hayle,  syr  devyll,  and  made  lowe  courtesy; 

Welcome,  quoth  he,  thus  smilyngly. 

He  knew  me  well,  and  I  at  laste 

Remembered  him  syns  longe  time  paste.   .   .  . 

For  oft  in  the  play  of  Corpus  Christi 

He  hath  playd  the  devyll  at  Coventry.  „  .  . 

And  to  make  my  returns  the  shorter, 

I  sayd  to  this  devyll,  good  mayster  porter^ 

For  all  old  love,  yf  it  lie  in  your  power, 

Helpe  me  to  speake  with  my  lord  and  your. 

Be  sure,  quoth  he,  no  tongue  can  tell 

What  tyme  thou  couldest  have  com  so  wellj 


io8     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

For  as  thys  daye  lucyfer  fell 

Which  is  our  festival  in  hell, 

Nothynge  unreasonable  craved  thys  day 

That  shall  in  hell  have  any  nay. 

Wherfore  stand  styll,  and  I  will  wyt 

If  I  can  get  thy  safe  condyt. 

He  taryed  not  but  shortely  got  it 

Under  seale,  and  the  devyll's  hande  at  it. 

In  ample  wyse,  as  ye  shall  here. 

Thus  it  began  :   Lucyfere, 

Be  the  power  of  god  chyefe  devyll  of  hell, 

To  all  the  devylls  that  there  do  dwell. 

And  every  of  them  we  sende  gretynge 

Under  streyt  charge  and  commandynge 

That  they  aydynge  and  assystant  be 

To  such  a  Pardoner,  and  named  me. 

So  that  he  may  at  lybertie 

Passe  save  without  any  jeopardy, 

Tyll  that  he  be  from  us  extyncte 

And  clerely  out  of  hell's  precyncte. 

Geven  in  the  fornes  of  our  palys 

In  our  highe  courte  of  maters  of  malys, 

Suche  a  day  and  yere  of  our  reyne. 

God  save  the  devyll,  quoth  I,  amain. 

Quod  he  .   .   . 

Thou  art  sure  to  take  no  harme. 

Thys  devyll  and  I  walkt  arme  in  arme 

So  farre  tyll  he  had  brought  me  thyther 

Where  all  the  devylls  of  hell  together 

Stode  in  array  in  such  apparell. 

As  for  that  day  there  metely  fell ; 

And  here  we  have  these  children's  ideas  of  hell. 


Thcyre  homes  well  gylt,  theyr  clowes  full  clene, 
Theyr  taylles  well  kempt,  and,  as  I  wene. 


The  Idea  of  Hell  found  in  the  Mystery  Plays 
From  tlic  "  Coventry  Mysteries'''' 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   109 

With  sothery  butter  theyr  bodies  anointed. 

I  never  sawe  devylls  so  well  appoynted. 

The  mayster  sat  in  his  jacket 

And  all  the  soules  were  playing  at  racket. 

None  other  rackettes  they  hadde  in  hande 

Save  every  soule  a  good  fyre  brand : 

Wherwyth  they  played  so  pretely 

That  Lucyfer  laughed  merely ; 

And  all  the  residew  of  the  feends 

Did  laugh  thereat  ful  wel  like  freends. 

Anon  all  this  route  was  brought  in  silens, 

And  I  by  an  usher  brought  in  presens 

Of  Lucyfer :  then  lowe,  as  wel  as  I  could, 

I  knelyd,  which  he  so  well  alowde, 

That  thus  he  beckte,  and  by  saint  Antony 

He  smyled  on  me  well  favourably 

Bendynge  his  browes  as  brode  as  barn-durres, 

Shakynge  hys  eares  as  ruged  as  burres, 

Rolynge  hys  eyes  as  round  as  two  bushels, 

Flashynge  the  fyre  out  of  his  nosethryls ; 

Gnashinge  hys  teeth  so  vayngloriously. 

That  we  thought  tyme  to  fall  to  flatery. 

He  falls  to  flattery,  and  then  asks  for  the  soul  of  his  lady 
friend. 

So  good  to  graunt  the  thynge  I  crave ; 
And  to  be  shorte,  thys  wolde  I  have ; 
The  soule  of  one  which  hyther  is  flytted 
Delivered  hens,  and  to  me  remitted,   .   .  . 
Thorough  out  the  erth  my  power  doth  stande 
Where  many  a  soule  lyeth  in  my  hande 
That  spede  in  maters  as  I  use  them. 
As  I  receyve  them  or  refuse  them. 
Wherby,  what  time  thy  pleasure  is, 
I  shall  requyte  any  part  of  thys. 


no     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

The  leste  devyll  here  that  can  come  thyther. 

Shall  chose  a  soule  and  brynge  him  hyther. 

Ho,  ho,  quoth  the  devyll,  we  are  well  pleased  : 

What  is  hys  name  thou  wouldst  have  eased  ? 

Nay,  quoth  I,  be  it  good  or  evyll. 

My  comynge  is  for  a  she-devyll. 

What  calste  her,  quoth  he,  thou  whoorson. 

Forsooth,  quoth  I,  Margery  Coorson. 

Now  by  our  honour,  says  Lucyfer, 

No  devyll  in  hell  shall  withholde  her; 

And  yf  thou  woldest  have  twenty  mo, 

Wert  not  for  justyce  they  shoulde  goo. 

For  all  we  devylls  within  thys  den 

Have  more  to  do  with  two  women 

(How  does  this  sound   compared  with   Shakspere's   Mi- 
randa, Rosalind,  Perdita  !) 

Then  with  all  the  charge  we  have  besyde ; 
Wherefore  yf  thou  our  frende  wyll  be  tryed, 
Apply  thy  pardons  to  women  so 
That  unto  us  there  come  no  mo. 
To  do  my  beste  I  promised  by  othe  ; 
Which  I  have  kept,  for  as  the  fayth  goth 
At  thys  day,  to  heven  I  do  procure 
Ten  women  to  one  man,  be  sure. 
Then  of  Lucyfer,  my  leve  I  take. 
And  streyt  unto  the  mayster  coke 
I  was  hadde,  into  the  kechyn 
For  Margerie's  offyce  was  therein. 

And  so  he   has  her  forth  to  the  gate,  and  sets  her  upon 
the  earth  with  great  joy. 

And  on  the  meate  were  halfe  rosted  in  dede 
I  take  her  then  fro  the  spit  in  with  spede. 
But  when  she  sawe  thys  brought  to  pas. 
To  tell  the  joy  wherein  she  was  ; 


The  Locked  Door 
Fivm  ail  engraving  in  the  "  Coz'entry  Mysteries" 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    iii 

And  of  all  the  devylls  for  joy 

Did  rore  at  her  delyvery 

And  how  the  cheynes  in  hell  did  rynge ; 

And  how  all  the  soules  therein  dyd  synge, 

And  how  we  were  brought  to  the  gate 

And  how  we  toke  our  leve  thereat. 

But  the  Palmer  wins  the  prize  of  worth  :  he  presently 
declares  that  he  never  saw  any  woman  out  of  patience  : 
this  is  adjudged  the  greatest  possible  falsehood.  Finally, 
after  infinite  chaffing  and  flouting,  good  doctrine  comes 
from  the  Pedler. 

Pedler.      Although  they  be  of  sundry  kinds, 
Yet  be  they  not  used  with  sundry  myndes. 
But  as  god  onely  doth  all  these  move, 
So  every  man  onely  for  his  love 
With  love  and  dred  obediently 
Worketh  in  these  vertues  unyformly. 
Every  vertue,  if  we  lyste  to  scan. 
Is  plesaunt  to  god  and  thankful  to  man. 
And  who  that  by  grace  of  the  Holy  Goste 
To  any  one  vertue  is  moved  moste 
That  man  by  that  grace  that  one  apply 
And  therein  serve  God  moste  plentyfully. 
Yet  not  that  one  so  farre  wyde  to  wreste 
As  lykynge  the  same  to  myslyke  the  reste. 
For  who  so  wresteth  hys  worke  is  in  vayne ; 
And  even  in  that  case  I  perceyve  you  twayne.   .   .   . 
Lykynge  your  vertue  in  suche  wyse 
That  eche  other's  vertue  ye  doo  dyspyse. 
Who  walketh  thys  way  for  god,  wold  finde  hym 
The  further  they  seke  hym  the  farther  behynde  hym. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME  — III 


N  my  last  lecture  I  brought  before  you 
several  personages  and  matters  of  that 
lighter  character  which  we  associate 
with  comedy.  We  had  our  pleasant 
merrymaking  over  Robert  Laneham 
as  he  reveals  himself  in  his  fantastic 
account  of  the  Kenilworth  festivities  ; 
we  had  our  quiet  smile  at  George 
Gascoigne's  simple-hearted  narration  of  some  of  the  same 
events  ;  and  we  had  our  heartier  laugh,  not  unmixed  with 
a  certain  sense  of  tragedy,  over  the  witty  descent  into  hell 
of  the  rascally  Pardoner  in  old  John  Heywood's  interlude 
of  The  Four  P's.  In  other  words  :  bringing  together  all 
these  terms  I  have  used, —  the  pleasant  merriment,  quiet 
smile  of  humour,  the  uproarious  laugh  tinged  with  terror 
which  wit  produces, —  you  will  observe  that  in  that  lecture 
I  endeavoured  to  set  you  by  the  earlier  founts  of  that  Eng- 
lish humour  which  afterwards  leaps  out  into  the  full  stream 
of  Shakspere's  comedies.  You  understand  that  The  Four 
F's  was  a  late  form  of  the  interlude,  soon  giving  into  the 
Ralph  Royster  Doyster  of  Nicholas  Udall,  which  we  may 
consider  the  first  completely  framed  English  comedy. 

I  I  2 


r/. 


\, 


-iC^ 


^(  i 


\lj>> 


mm 


7^f^:^^i 


^ 


;\\^v; 


A  Soul  in  Torment 
From  the  "  Ccn'oitry  Mysteries  " 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    113 

Having  endeavoured  to  put  you  in  sympathy  with  so 
much  of  the  sixteenth-century  domestic  or  social  Hfe  as 
relates  to  the  kind  of  comic  plays  and  humourous  person- 
ages which  Shakspere's  early  contemporaries  were  accus- 
tomed to  see,  I  wish  in  the  present  lecture  to  pursue  the 
same  course  with  reference  to  the  more  serious  side  of 
life.  I  should  like  to  show  you,  first,  what  kind  of  a 
book  people  would  probably  be  reading  in  Shakspere's 
early  time  ;  secondly,  what  kind  of  a  sermon  the  people 
would  hear  when  they  went  to  church ;  and  thirdly, 
what  kind  of  a  tragedy  they  would  see  when  they  went 
to  the  theatre.  For  this  purpose  I  am  going  to  take 
occasion  to  introduce  to  you  three  of  the  most  serious, 
strong  and  withal  beautiful  men  who  ever  lived  —  to  wit : 
Stephen  Gosson,  Hugh  Latimer,  and  Thomas  Sackville, 
Lord  Buckhurst. 

You  will  remember  that  in  the  last  lecture  we  left 
Shakspere  in  the  inn-yard  of  Warwick  listening  to  a  per- 
formance of  The  Four  P's,  in  the  summer  of  1575,  when 
he  was  a  boy  of  eleven.  It  was  just  about  this  time  that 
a  furious  debate  broke  out  in  England  upon  the  matter  of 
playgoing  and  plays  generally.  The  quarrel  had  been 
smouldering  for  some  years.  As  early  as  1572  Parliament 
had  passed  an  act  which  declared  that  "  all  Fencers  Beare- 
wardes  Comon  Players  in  Enterludes  and  Minstrels " 
were  "  Roges  Vacabounds  and  Sturdye  Beggers  "  unless 
they  belonged  to  some  "  Baron  of  this  Realme  or  to  any 
other  honourable  Personage  of  greater  Degree."  Upon 
conviction  ofany  oneas  a"Roge"  or  "Vacabound"  within 
the  meaning  of  this  act,  he  or  she  —  for  the  act  applied  to 
male  and  female  alike  —  was  for  the  first  offence  "  to  be 
grevously  whipped,  and  burnte  through  the  gristle  of  the 
righte  Eare  with  an  hot  Yron  of  the  compasse  of  an  Ynche 
aboute,  manifestynge  his  or  her  rogyshe  kinde  of  Lyef " 


114     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

A  third  offence  was  punished  with  death  without  benefit  of 
clere;y  or  sanctuary. 

Three  years  later — that  is,  in  the  same  year  of  the 
Kenilworth  reception  —  the  Corporation  of  London 
expelled  all  players  from  the  city.  This  severe  measure, 
however, —  as  often  happens, —  had  an  effect  precisely 
opposite  to  its  intent.  It  increased  the  evil  which  it 
sought  to  diminish.  The  players,  as  I  showed  in  my  last 
lecture,  had  been  accustomed  to  performing  in  the  yards 
of  the  inns  about  London.  But  being  now  banished  from 
the  city,  they  defiantly  determined  to  go  on  playing  as 
near  the  city  as  possible ;  and  so  the  players  proceeded  to 
erect  special  buildings  for  their  purpose  just  outside  the 
city  limits.  Thus  the  banishing  edict  of  the  London  Cor- 
poration, instead  of  suppressing  the  drama,  really  developed 
it,  and  gave  us  the  first  theatre-building  in  England.  In 
the  following  year  three  theatres  were  erected,  all  within  a 
short  distance  of  the  boundaries  of  London  :  one  was 
called  "  The  Theatre,"  one  "  The  Curtain,"  and  a  third 
"  The  Blackfriars."  The  latter  was  built  by  John  Bur- 
bage,  father  to  that  Richard  Burbage  who  was  the  friend 
and  fellow-actor  of  Shakspere. 

This  bold  act  of  the  players  in  setting  up  gorgeous 
theatres  under  the  very  noses  of  their  worships,  the  Lon- 
don burghers,  loosed  a  prodigious  flood  of  debate  over  the 
drama  which  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  ended  even  at 
the  present  day.  The  clergy  began  a  furious  attack  on  the 
stage.  In  the  very  next  year,  1577,  we  find  Wilcocks 
preaching  a  sermon  at  Paul's  Cross  in  which  he  ascribed 
the  awful  calamity  of  the  plague  which  had  been  devas- 
tating London  to  this  fearful  sin  of  the  theatres  about  the 
city.  *'  Looke,"  he  cries,  "  but  upon  the  common  playes 
in  London,  and  see  the  multitude  that  flocketh  to 
them  ;  .   .   .  beholde    the    sumptuous    theatre    houses,    a 


"^g^t-jftBHiJ'*.'' "  l^j^fs^ 


'-«^- 


Mummers  and  Scrolling  Players  of  che  Middle  Ages  in  England 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    115 

continual  monument  of  London's  prodigalitie  and  folly. 
But  I  understande  they  are  now  forbidden  by  cause  of  the 
plague.  .  .  .  The  cause  of  plagues  is  sinne,  if  you  looke  to 
it  well;  and  the  cause  of  sinne  are  playes  ;  therefore  the 
cause  of  plagues  are  playes." 

In  1578  John  Stockwood  preaches  a  sermon  at  Paul's 
Cross — which  seems  to  have  beena  favourite  position  for  the 
anti-theatrical  artillery  —  in  which  he  mentions  by  name 
two  of  the  theatres  which  had  been  built  a  couple  of  years 
before.  "  Wyll  not  a  fylthye  playe,"  says  he,  "  wyth  the 
blast  of  a  Trumpette,  sooner  call  thyther  a  thousande,  than 
an  houres  tolling  of  a  Bell  bring  to  the  Sermon  a  hundred  ? 
nay  even  heare  in  the  Citie,  without  it  be  at  this  place,  and 
some  other  certaine  ordinarie  audience,  where  shall  you 
finde  a  reasonable  companye  ?  Whereas  if  you  resorte  to 
the  Theatre,  the  Curtayne,  and  other  places  of  Playes  in 
the  Citie,  you  shall  on  the  Lord's  day  have  these  places, 
with  many  other  that  I  can  not  reckon,  so  full,  as  possible 
they  can  throng.  .  .  .  What  do  I  speak  of  beastelye 
Playes,  against  which  out  of  this  place  every  man  crieth 
out  ?  Have  we  not  houses  of  purpose  built  with  great 
charges  for  the  maintenance  of  them,  and  that  without  the 
liberties,  as  who  should  say,  then,  let  them  saye  what  they 
will  say,  we  will  play.  I  know  not  how  I  might  with  the 
godly  learned  especially  more  discommende  the  gorgeous 
Playing  place  erected  in  the  fieldes,  than  to  terme  it,  as  they 
please  to  have  it  called,  a  Theatre." 

This  debate  produced  many  celebrated  works.  ^  You 
all  remember  the  Histriomastix  of  William  Prynne,  in  the 
time  of  Charles  I,  and  his  celebrated  trial  before  the  Star 

1  Indeed,  it  pervaded  the  religious  "  the  promised  tears  of  repentance 

discourses  by  way  of  simile  as  well  prove  not   the   tears  of  the  onion 

as     of    denunciation:        "I     pray  upon  the  theatre." 
God,"  runs  a  quaint  exhortation. 


ii6     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Chamber  for  alleged  slanders  in  that  book  against  the 
Qiieen  founded  upon  the  part  she  had  taken  in  a  court 
masque.  William  Rankin  had  written  a  still  earher  tirade 
against  the  theatre,  called  the  Mirrour  of  Monsters. 

But  the  most  powerful  and  in  many  respects  the  most 
interesting  work  against  the  theatre  was  Stephen  Gosson's 
Schoole  of  AbusCy  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  in  1579. 
Gosson  —  a  Kent  man  —  had  gone  up  to  London  and  had 
taken  to  acting  and  to  writing  plays  when  he  was  still  a 
mere  boy.  His  prematurity  can  be  inferred  from  the  fact 
that  he  had  acted,  had  produced  at  least  three  plays,  had 
seen  the  error  of  his  course,  had  resolved  to  quit  playing 
and  expose  the  abuses  of  the  stage,  and  had  written  the 
Schoole  of  Abuse  for  that  purpose,  all  by  the  time  he  was 
twenty-four  years  of  age. 

He  gives  us  (in  Playes  Confuted^  a  lively  account  of  his 
own  change  of  mind. 

"  When  I  first  gave  my  selfe  to  the  studie  of  Poetrie, 
and  to  set  my  cunning  abroache,  by  penning  Tragedies^  and 
Comedies  in  the  Citie  of  London  :  perceiving  such  a  Gor- 
dians  knot  of  disorder  in  every  playhouse  as  would  never 
be  loosed  without  extremitie,  I  thought  it  better  with 
Alexander  to  draw  ye  sword  that  should  knappe  it  asunder 
at  one  stroke,  then  to  seeke  over  nicely  or  gingerly  to 
undoe  it,  with  the  losse  of  my  time  and  wante  of  successe. 
This  caused  mee  to  .  .  .  geve  them  a  volley  of  heathen 
writers.   ..." 

Gosson  dedicated  his  book  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney — very 
malapropos^  one  might  judge  on  other  plentiful  grounds 
besides  the  express  testimony  we  have  in  a  letter  of  Ed- 
mund Spenser's  to  Gabriel  Harvey  in  1579:  "  Newe 
Bookes  I  heare  of  none,  but  only  of  one  that  writing  a 
certaine  Booke  called  The  Schoole  of  Abuse ^  and  dedicating 
it  to  Maister  Sidney,  was  for  hys  labor  scorned  :  if  at  leaste 


William  Prynne 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    117 

it  be  In  the  goodnesse  of  that  nature  to  scorne.  Suche  follie 
is  it,  not  to  regarde  aforehande  the  incHnation  and  quahtie 
of  him,  to  whom  we  dedicate  oure  bookes." 

Gosson's  book,  as  I  said,  was  entered  at  Stationers' 
Hall  in  1579.  Now  I  find  it  easy  to  fancy  that  three  or 
four  years  after, —  for  there  were  replies  and  counter-replies 
to  the  Schoole  of  Abuse  which  kept  the  book  alive  and 
talked  about  for  some  time, —  perhaps  on  some  late  sum- 
mer afternoon  of  1582,  when  William  Shakspere  was 
eighteen  years  old,  one  of  John  Shakspere's  neighbours 
who  belonged  to  the  anti-theatre  party  may  have  dropped 
into  the  house  in  Henley  Street  with  a  copy  of  Gosson's 
Schoole  of  Abuse ^  in  the  hope  of  rescuing  John  Shakspere 
from  the  fascinations  of  the  drama.  For  John  Shakspere 
was  most  likely  a  lover  of  playing ;  while  he  had  been 
alderman  of  Stratford  we  find  that  the  players  of  the  Earl 
of  Leicester  and  of  the  Earl  of  Worcester  had  acted  in  the 
Guildhall  of  the  town,  and  records  remain  of  moneys  paid 
to  such  companies.  It  is  not  difficult,  therefore,  to  fancy  a 
family  party  at  John  Shakspere's  house  in,  say,  1582,  when, 
after  some  preliminary  discussion  of  the  point, —  probably 
often  discussed  before, —  the  neighbour  draws  forth  his 
volume  of  Gosson  and  proceeds  to  demolish  John  Shak- 
spere's arguments,  while  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 
William  Shakspere  is  seated,  with  his  keen  ears  open,  say- 
ing nothing.  And  so  let  us  follow  the  good  burgher  as  he 
reads  to  Master  Shakspere  from  Gosson's  book  here  and 
there.  The  Dedication  begins  with  a  quaint  story  of  an 
anti-climax,  and  soon  acquaints  one  with  one  of  Gosson's 
characteristic  assemblages  of  old  saws  and  proverbs  mixed 
with  metaphoric  inventions  of  his  own  : 

"  Caligula,  lying  in  France  with  a  great  army  of  fight- 
ing menne,  brought  all  his  force  on  a  sudden  to  the  Sea 
side,  as  though  he  intended  to  cutte  over  and  invade  Eng- 


ii8     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

lande :  when  he  came  to  the  shore,  his  Souldiers  were 
presently  set  in  araye,  himselfe  shipped  in  a  small  barke, 
weyed  Ancors,  and  lanched  out ;  he  had  not  played  long 
in  the  Sea,  wafting  too  and  fro,  at  his  pleasure,  but  he 
returned  agayne,  stroke  sayle,  gave  allarme  to  his  souldiers 
in  token  of  battaile,  and  charged  everie  man  too  gather 
cockles.  .  .  .  The  title  of  my  book  doth  promise  much, 
the  volume  you  see  is  very  little  :  and  sithens  I  can  not 
beare  out  my  follie  by  authoritie,  like  an  Emperor,  I  will 
crave  pardon  for  my  Phrenzie,  by  submission,  as  your 
worshippes  too  commaunde.  The  Schoole  which  I  builde 
is  narrowe,  and  at  the  first  blushe  appeareth  but  a  dogge- 
hole  ;  yet  small  cloudes  carie  water  ;  slender  threedes  sowe 
sure  stiches ;  little  heares  have  their  shadowes ;  blunt 
stones  whette  knives;  from  hard  rockes,  flow  soft  springes  ; 
the  whole  worlde  is  drawen  in  a  mappe  ;  Homers  Iliades 
in  a  nutte  shell ;  a  Kings  picture  in  a  pennie ;  little 
chestes  may  holde  greate  Treasure  ;  a  fewe  Cyphers  con- 
tayne  the  substance  of  a  rich  Merchant;  the  shorteste 
Pamphlette  may  shrowde  matter ;  the  hardest  heade 
may  give  light ;  and  the  harshest  penne  maye  sette  downe 
somewhat  woorth  the  reading." 

He  now  proceeds  to  attack  poetry,  music,  and  the 
drama, —  which,  he  says,  all  hang  together, —  and  begins 
with  a  blast  against  the  poets.  Presently  he  is  gotten 
into  this  strain  :  "  I  must  confesse  that  Poets  are  the 
whetstones  of  wit,  notwithstanding  that  wit  Is  dearly 
bought :  where  honey  and  gall  are  mixed.  It  will  be  hard 
to  sever  the  one  from  the  other.  The  deceitfull  Phisi- 
tion  giveth  sweete  Syrropes  to  make  his  poyson  goe  down 
the  smoother  :  the  Juggler  casteth  a  mist  to  worke  the 
closer :  the  Syrens  Song  Is  the  Saylers  wrack :  the 
Fowler's  whistle,  the  birdes  death  :  the  wholesome  bayte, 
the    fishes    bane :   the    Harpies    have    Virgins'    faces  and 


-^     ^ 


'Si 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    119 

vultures  Talentes  :  Hyena  speakes  like  a  friend,  and  de- 
voures  like  a  Foe  :  the  calmest  seas  hide  dangerous  Rockes: 
the  Woolf  jettes  in  Weathers  felles :  many  good  sen- 
tences are  spoken  by  Danus,  to  shadowe  his  knavery  :  and 
written  by  Poets,  as  ornamentes  to  beautifye  their  woorkes, 
and  sette  theyr  trumperie  too  sale  without  suspect." 

He  now  assembles  a  most  surprising  number  of  an- 
cient stories  and  sayings  in  support  of  his  doctrine.  As, 
for  example  :  "  Anacharsis  beeing  demanded  of  a  Greeke, 
whether  they  had  not  instruments  of  Musick,  or  Schooles 
of  Poetrie  in  Scythia^  answered,  yes,  and  that  without  vice, 
as  though  it  were  either  impossible,  or  incredible,  that  no 
abuse  should  be  learned  where  such  lessons  are  taught, 
and  such  schooles  maintained. 

"  Salust  in  describing  the  nurture  of  Sempronia^  says. 
.  .  .  She  was  taught  .  .  .  both  Greek  and  Latine,  she 
could  versifie,  sing,  and  daunce,  better  than  became  an 
honest  woman.    .    .    . 

"  But  .  .  .  as  by  Anarcharsis'  report  the  Scythians 
did  it  without  offence:  so  one  Swalowe  brings  not  Summer. 
.  .  .  Hee  that  goes  to  Sea,  must  smel  of  the  ship  ;  and 
that  sayles  into  Poets  wil  savour  of  Pitch. 

"  Tiberius  the  Emperour  sawe  somewhat,  when  he 
judged  Scaurus  to  death  for  writing  a  Tragidie  :  Augustus^ 
when  hee  banished  Ovid ;  And  Nero  when  he  charged 
Lucan,  to  put  up  his  pipes,  to  stay  his  penne  and  write  no 
more." 

And  now,  since  "  Poetrie  and  pyping  have  alwaies  bene 
so  united  togither,"  a  further  screed  against  music : 

"Instruments"  are  "used  in  battaile,  not  to  tickle 
the  eare  but  to  teach  every  souldier  when  to  strike 
and  when  to  stay,  when  to  flye,  and  when  to  followe. 
Chiron  by  singing  to  his  instrument,  quencheth  Achiles 
furye ;   Terpandrus  with  his  notes,  layeth  the  tempest,  and 


I20     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

pacifies  the  tumult  at  Lacedamon ;  Homer  with  his 
Musicke  cured  the  sick  Souldiers  in  the  Grecian  Campe, 
and  purged  every  man's  Tent  of  the  Plague.  Thinke 
you  that  those  miracles  coulde  bee  brought  with  playing 
of  Daunces,  Dumpes,  Pavins,  Galiardes,  Measures  Fan- 
eyes,  or  new  streynes  ?  They  never  came  where  this 
grew,  nor  knew  what  it  meant.  Pythagorus  bequeathes 
them  a  clookebagge,  and  condemnes  them  for  fools  that 
judge  musicke  by  sounde  and  eare.  If  you  will  bee  good 
Scholars,  and  profite  well  in  the  Arte  of  Musicke,  shutte 
your  Fidels  in  their  cases,  and  looke  up  to  heaven  :  the 
order  of  the  spheres,  the  unfallible  motion  of  the  Planets, 
the  juste  course  of  the  yeere,  and  varietie  of  seasons,  the 
Concorde  of  the  Elementes  and  their  qualyties,  Fyre, 
Water,  Ayre,  Earth,  Heate,  Colde,  Moysture  and  Drought 
concurring  togeather  to  the  constitution  of  earthly  bodies 
and  sustenance  of  every  creature.  The  politike  Lawes  in 
well  governed  common  wealthes,  that  treade  downe  the 
prowde,  and  upholde  the  meeke,  the  love  of  the  King  and 
his  subjectes,  the  Father  and  his  childe,  the  Lord  and  his 
Slave,  the  Maister  and  his  Man  .  .  .  are  excellent  mais- 
ters  too  showe  you  that  this  is  right  Musicke,  this  perfect 
harmony.  .  .  .  Terpandrus  when  he  ended  the  brabbles 
at  Lacedsemon,  neyther  pyped  Rogero  nor  Turkelony^  but 
reckning  up  the  commodities  of  friendship,  and  fruites  of 
debate,  putting  them  in  mind  of  Lycurgus  lawes,  taught 
them  too  treade  a  better  measure.    .    .    . 

"  The  Argives  appointed  by  their  lawes  great  punish- 
ments for  such  as  placed  above  7  strings  upon  any 
instrument.  .  .  .  Plutarch  is  of  opinion  that  the  instru- 
ments of  3  strings  which  were  used  before  their  time 
passed  al  that  have  followed  since.  It  was  an  old  law  and 
long  kept  that  no  man  shoulde  according  to  his  owne 
humor,  adde  or  diminish,  in  matters  concerning  that  Art, 
but  walk  in  the  paths  of  their  predecessors. 


7^trj^t^.tl/A^^^.f'H«-9''j''rf-f'K.Mmr^i\- 


Morris-dancers 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    121 

"  As  Poetrie  and  Piping  are  Cosen  germans  :  so  piping 
and  playing  are  of  great  affinity,  and  all  three  chayned  in 
linkes  of  abuse.  .  .  .  Cookes  did  never  shewe  more 
crafte  in  their  junckets  to  vanquish  the  taste,  nor  Painters 
in  shadowes  to  allure  the  eye,  then  Poets  in  Theaters  to 
wounde  the  conscience.  ...  I  judge  cookes  and  Painters 
the  better  hearing,  for  the  one  extendeth  his  arte  no  far- 
ther then  to  the  tongue,  palate  and  nose,  the  other  to  the 
eye ;  and  both  are  ended  in  outwarde  sense,  which  is 
common  to  us  with  bruite  beasts.  But  these  by  the 
privie  entries  of  the  eare,  slip  downe  into  the  hart,  and 
with  gunshotte  of  affection  gaule  the  minde,  where  reason 
and  vertue  should  rule  the  roste." 

He  now  goes  on  to  describe  behaviour  at  the  theatres 
In  those  days  :  "  In  Rome  when  Plaies  or  Pageants  are 
showne:  Ovid  chargeth  his  Pilgrims,  to  crepe  close  to  the 
Saintes,  whom  they  serve,  and  shew  their  double  diligence 
to  lifte  the  Gentlewomens  roabes  from  the  grounde  .  .  . 
to  sweepe  Moates  from  their  Kirtles,  ...  to  lay  their 
handes  at  their  backs  for  an  easie  staye  .  .  .  too  prayse 
that,  whiche  they  commende ;  too  lyke  everything  that 
pleaseth  them  ;  to  presente  them  Pomegranates  to  picke 
as  they  syt ;  and  when  all  is  done  to  waite  on  them  man- 
nerly too  their  houses." 

Here  follows  a  lively  picture  of  theatre  manners  in 
Shakspere's  time.  "In  our  assemblies  at  playes  in  London^ 
you  shale  see  suche  heaving  and  shooving,  suche  ytching 
and  shouldering,  too  sitte  by  women  ;  suche  care  for  their 
garments  that  they  bee  not  trode  on.  Such  eyes  to  their 
lappes,  that  no  chippes  light  in  them  ;  such  pillowes  to 
their  backes  that  they  take  no  hurt ;  such  masking  in  their 
ears,  I  knowe  not  what ;  such  giving  them  Pippins  to 
passe  the  time  ;  .  .  .  such  smiling,  such  winking,  and  such 
manning  them  home  when  the  sportes  are  ended,  that  it 
is  a  right  Comedie  to  marke  their  behavior.   ...   I  looke 


1-2     SHAKSPERE  AND  HIS  FORERUNNERS 

still  when  Players  should  cast  me  their  Gauntlets,  and 
challenge  a  combate  ...  as  though  I  made  them  Lords 
of  this  misrule.  .  .  .  There  are  more  houses  than  Parishe 
churches,  more  maydes  then  Maulkin,  more  wayes  to  the 
woode  then  one,  and  more  causes  in  nature  than  Efficients. 
The  carpenter  rayseth  not  his  frame  without  tooles,  nor 
the  Devill  his  woork  without  instrumentes ;  were  not 
Players  the  meane,  to  make  these  assemblyes,  such  multi- 
tudes wold  hardly  be  drawne  in  so  narowe  roome.  .  .  . 
The  abuses  of  plaies  cannot  be  shown  because  they  passe 
the  degrees  of  the  instrument,  reach  of  the  Plummet,  sight 
of  the  minds,  and  for  trial  are  never  brought  to  the  touch- 
stone. .  .  .  The  very  hyerlings  of  some  of  our  Players, 
which  stand  at  reversion  of  VI.  S.  by  the  weeke,  get  under 
Gentlemen's  noses  in  sutes  of  silke,"  (and)  "  look  askance 
over  the  shoulder  at  every  man  of  whom  the  Sunday  be- 
fore they  begged  an  almes. 

"  Meantime,  if  Players  bee  called  to  accounte  for  the 
abuses  that  growe  by  their  assemblyes,  I  would  not  have 
them  to  answere,  as  Pilades  did  for  the  Theaters  of  Rome, 
when  they  were  complayned  on ;  and  Augustus  waxed 
angry  :  This  resort  O  desar  is  good  for  thee^  for  heere  we 
keepe  thousandes  of  idle  heds  occupyed,  which  else  peradven- 
ture  would  brue  some  mischiefe.  A  fit  cloud  to  cover  their 
abuse,  and  not  unlike  to  the  starting-hole  that  Lucinius 
found,  who,  like  a  greedy  serveiour,  beeing  sente  into 
France  to  governe  the  countrie,  robbed  them  and  spoyled 
them  of  all  their  Treasure  with  unreasonable  taskes  ;  at 
the  last  when  his  cruelties  was  so  loudely  cryed  out  on 
that  every  man  hearde  it ;  and  all  his  packing  did  savour 
so  strong,  that  Augustus  smelt  it ;  he  brought  the  good 
Emperour  into  his  house,  flapped  him  in  the  mouth  with 
a  smoth  lye,  and  tolde  him  that  for  his  sake  and  the  safetie 
of  RomCy  hee  gathered  those  riches,  the  better  to  impover- 


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DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    123 

Ish  the  Country  for  ryslng  in  Armes  and  so  holde  the 
poore  Frenchmennes'  Noses  to  the  Grindstone  for  ever 
after.  A  bad  excuse  is  better,  they  say,  than  none  at  all. 
Hee,  because  the  Frenchman  paid  tribute  every  moneth, 
into  XIII  Moneths  divided  the  yeere  :  these  because  they 
are  allowed  to  play  every  Sunday,  make  IIII  or  V  Sun- 
days at  least  every  weeke,  .  .  .  [All  beasts  have  some 
wisdom  ;  instances  :  ]  The  Crane  is  said  to  rest  upon 
one  leg,  and  holding  up  the  other,  keepe  a  Pebble  in  her 
clawe,  which  as  sone  as  the  senses  are  bound  by  approache 
of  sleep  falles  to  the  ground  and  .  .  .  makes  her  awake, 
whereby  shee  is  ever  ready  to  prevent  her  enemies.  .  .  . 
But  wee  [are  always]  running  most  greedily  to  those 
places  where  we  are  soonest  overthrowne. 

"  t  cannot  lyken  our  Affection  better  than  to  an 
Arrowe,  which  getting  lybertie,  with  winges  is  carryed 
beyonde  our  reache  ;  kepte  in  the  Quiver,  it  is  still  at 
commaundment :  or  to  a  Dogge,  let  him  slippe,  he  is 
straight  out  of  sight,  holde  him  in  the  Lease,  hee  never 
stirres :  or  to  a  colte,  give  him  the  bridle,  he  flinges 
aboute  ;  raine  him  hard,  and  you  may  rule  him  :  Or  to  a 
ship,  hoyst  the  sayles  it  runnes  on  head ;  let  fall  the  An- 
cour,  all  is  well :  Or  to  Pandoraes  boxe,  lift  uppe  the  lidde, 
out  flyes  the  Devill ;  shut  it  up  fast,  it  cannot  hurt  us. 

"  Let  us  but  shut  up  our  eares  to  Poets,  Pypers  and 
Players,  pull  our  feete  back  from  resort  to  Theaters,  and 
turne  away  our  eyes  from  beholding  of  vanitie,  the  great- 
est storme  of  abuse  will  be  overblowen,  and  a  fayre  path 
troden  to  amendment  of  life.  Were  not  we  so  foolish  to 
taste  every  drugge,  and  buy  every  trifle.  Players  would  shut 
in  their  shoppes,  and  carry  their  trashe  to  some  other 
Countrie.  .  .  .  Now  if  any  man  aske  me  why  myselfe 
have  penned  Comedyes  in  time  paste,  and  inveigh  so 
eagerly  against  them  here,  let  him  know  that  semel  insani- 


124     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

nimus  omnes ;  I  have  sinned,  and  am  sorry  for  my  fault : 
hee  runnes  farre  that  never  turnes,  better  late  than  never. 
.  .  .  Thus  sith  I  have  in  my  voyage  sufFred  wrack  with 
U/isseSy  and  wringing-wet  scrambled  with  life  to  the  shore, 
stand  for  mee  Nausicad  with  all  thy  traine  till  I  wipe  the 
blot  from  my  forehead,  and  with  sweet  springs  wash  away 
the  salt  froath  that  cleaves  too  my  soule.   .   .   . 

"  This  have  I  set  downe  of  the  abuses  of  Poets,  Pypers 
and  Players  which  bringe  us  too  pleasure,  slouth,  sleepe, 
sinne,  and  without  repentance  to  death  and  the  Devill : 
which  I  have  not  confirmed  by  authoritie  of  the  Scriptures, 
because  they  are  not  able  to  stand  uppe  in  the  sight  of 
God :  and  sithens  they  dare  not  abide  the  field,  where  the 
word  of  God  dooth  bidde  them  battayle,  but  runne  to 
Antiquityes.  ...  I  have  given  them  a  volley  of  prophane 
writers  to  beginne  the  skirmishe,  and  doone  my  indevour 
to  beate  them  from  their  holdes  with  their  owne  weapons." 

Before  I  leave  Gosson  1  cannot  resist  giving  you  a 
snatch  of  his  poetry,  which  is  comical  enough  and  yet 
shows  through  all  the  crookedness  of  metaphor  and 
thought  a  certain  strength  of  feeling  and  nimbleness  of 
fancy  which  give  one  a  solid  liking  for  this  evidently  earnest, 
pure-hearted  and  straight-souled  man.  This  poem  is  not  in 
the  Schoole  of  Abuse^  but  is  found  disconnected  in  a  work  by 
another  author  of  the  period.      I  give  only  a  part  of  it : 

O  what  is  man  ?      Or  whereof  might  he  vaunt  ? 

From  earth  and  ayre  and  ashes  fyrst  he  came. 

His  fickle  state  his  courage  ought  to  daunt : 

His  lyfe  shall  flit  when  most  he  trustes  the  same.   .  .  . 

A  lame  and  loathsome  lymping  legged  wight 

That  dayly  doth  God's  froune  and  furie  feele ; 

A  crooked  cripple,  voyde  of  all  delight, 

That  haleth  after  him  an  haulting  heele 

And  from  Hierusalem  on  stilts  doth  reele. 


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DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    125 

A  wretch  of  wrath,  a  sop  in  sorow  sowst, 
A  bruised  barke  with  billowes  all  bedowst.   .   .   . 
The  wreathed  haire  of  perfect  golden  wire, 
The  cristall  eyes,  the  shining  Angel's  face. 
That  kindles  coales  to  set  the  heart  on  fyre. 
When  we  doe  think  to  runne  a  royalle  race, 
Shall  sodeynly  be  gauled  with  disgrace, 
Our  goodes,  our  beautie,  and  our  brave  aray 
That  seem  to  set  our  heartes  on  heygh  for  aye; 
Much  like  the  tender  floure  in  fragrant  feelde 
Whose  sugred  sap  sweet  smelling  savours  yeelde ; 
Though  we  therein  doe  dayly  lay  our  lust. 
By  dint  of  death  shall  vanish  unto  dust. 

Now  I  find  no  difficulty  in  fancying  that  this  tirade 
against  the  theatres  had  much  the  same  effect  on  young 
Will  Shakspere  as  banishment  had  upon  the  London 
players.  At  eighteen,  to  be  told  that  a  thing  is  dangerous 
is  to  resolve  to  do  it.  Very  likely  young  Will  Shakspere 
lay  awake  much  of  the  night  after  he  had  heard  Gosson's 
eloquence. 

The  result  of  his  meditations  was  told,  possibly,  to 
Anne  Hathaway  next  day.  It  may  be  that  he  went  over 
to  her  house,  and  after  they  two  got  a  quiet  moment  to- 
gether he  startled  the  girl  by  informing  her  that  he  had 
determined  to  see  London.  Of  course  Anne  wept,  and 
entreated  him  not  to  go  ;  but  the  fire  burnt  in  him,  and 
go  he  must.  Then  suddenly  Anne  Hathaway's  demeanour 
changes  :  she  consents,  and  with  a  certain  air  of  mysterious 
resolution  helps  him  to  get  avvay. 

So  imagine  him  arriving  late  on  a  Saturday  night  in 
the  great  city  of  London,  a  lonesome  boy  of  eighteen,  with 
no  definite  aim,  no  palpable  money,  wondering,  now  that 
he  is  here,  why  he  is  here,  desolate  over  the  utter  uncon- 
cern with  which  people  pass   him   by,  yet   not  without  a 


126     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

sense  that  he  has  that  in  him  which  might  work  changes  in 
these  matters.  He  goes  to  the  Belle  Savage  Inn  on  Lud- 
gate  Hill.  The  yard  of  this  inn  had  been  a  famous  place 
for  plays  before  the  theatres  were  put  up  ;  but  the  land- 
lord now  descants  mournfully  to  his  young  guest  on  the 
loss  of  custom  he  has  suffered  since  those  driving  days 
when  the  performances  kept  his  tapsters  busy. 

On  the  next  morning  —  being  Sunday  —  Shakspere 
determines  to  hear  a  London  sermon  in  the  forenoon, 
before  going  to  the  Blackfriars  Theatre  in  the  afternoon. 
For  this  purpose  he  walks  over  to  Paul's  Cross.  This 
famous  spot,  from  which  so  many  great  sermons  were 
preached  in  those  days,  was  an  open  space  near  the  cathe- 
dral where  great  crowds  assembled  on  Sunday  to  hear  the 
popular  preachers  of  the  time.  The  audience  stood,  or 
sat  on  their  horses  or  mules,  in  the  open  air  during 
the  sermon.  In  bad  weather  they  would  adjourn  to  what 
was  called  the  "  Shrouds,"  which  seems  to  have  been  a 
sort  of  covered  place  adjoining  the  walls  of  the  cathedral. 

Shakspere,  therefore,  with  so  many  thoughts  in  his  soul 
that  the  world  seems  too  small  for  them,  stations  himself 
in  the  crowd  and  listens  to  the  sermon. 

Instead  of  giving  you  the  discourse  which  young  Shak- 
spere might  actually  have  heard  on  that  day  at  Paul's  Cross, 
it  will  extend  the  range  of  my  presentation  considerably  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  substitute  a  sermon  —  or  rather  some 
representative  extracts  from  several  sermons  —  of  Hugh 
Latimer,  dating  some  thirty  years  previous.  This  grand 
man  had  indeed  preached  at  Paul's  Cross, —  where  our 
young  Shakspere  is  now  standing, —  about  thirty-three 
years  before,  to  great  crowds  of  people.  I  cannot  resist 
bringing  him  before  you,  because  Latimer  is  one  of  those 
men  whose  names  we  all  know  so  well  that  we  do  not 
know  them  at  all.      Every  school-boy  learns  that  Latimer 


rt 

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f   A!'  hs    f  K  (J  .S  S.  • 


Preaching  before  the  King  at  Paul's  Cross  in  1620 
From  a  rare  engraving 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    127 

was  burned  at  the  stake  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Mary  ;  but 
few  men  except  specialists  ever  read  a  sermon  of  Latimer's. 
It  happened  that  in  the  year  1548  Latimer,  then  a  man 
of  great  renown  and  favour,  was  invited  by  King  Edward 
VI  to  preach  seven  sermons  before  him  and  the 
court,  one  on  each  Friday  during  Lent.  Latimer  was 
used  to  addressing  kings  from  the  pulpit :  fifteen  years 
before  he  had  preached  to  Henry  VIII  and  had  not  hesi- 
tated to  declare  his  mind  very  plainly  upon  some  points 
wherein  he  differed  from  that  monarch.  But  here  now  in 
1549  we  find  him  preaching  in  King  Edward's  garden  at 
Westminster,  where  the  King  had  caused  a  pulpit  to  be 
set  up  for  him  in  the  open  air  so  that  more  people  could 
hear  him.  Latimer  was  now  nearly  sixty  years  old,  and 
these  sermons,  which  are  nearly  extempore,  have  the  most 
touching  flavour  of  that  mingled  authority  and  sweetness 
which  is  won  by  a  strong  man  who  has  lived  and  who 
knows  whereof  he  speaks.  I  find  in  them,  too,  a  tender- 
ness and  earnestness  which  makes  one  feel  as  if  they  were 
infused  with  some  prophetic  sense  of  the  terrible  fate  which 
awaited  him.  It  was  in  truth  but  about  six  years  before 
the  good  old  Latimer,  instead  of  preaching  to  a  king  in 
his  garden,  was  burning  in  the  fire  at  Oxford. 

I  wish  to  give  you  the  seventh  of  this  set  of  sermons 
substantially  as  Latimer  preached  it.  Before  doing  so  let 
me  present  you  with  a  passage  or  two  from  the  other  six, 
taken  here  and  there,  to  illustrate  Bishop  Latimer's 
methods  of  preaching  as  well  as  to  exhibit  sundry  touches 
of  the  manners  of  the  time. 

Here,  for  example,  is  one  from  the  third  sermon  which 
shows  that  the  sturdy  old  man  had  the  strength  and  adroit- 
ness of  Mr.  Moody  in  turning  to  use  all  manner  of  homely 
illustrations,  and  in  making  good-humoured  points  in  his 
own  favour.     After  relating  in  this  sermon  how  a  certain 


128     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

man  had  accused  him  of  sedition  before  the  King  for  being 
too  plain-spoken  in  his  preaching,  and  how  he  rebuked 
him  in  the  King's  presence,  he  goes  on  to  tell  a  story  about 
the  same  person  : 

"  Ther  is  a  certaine  man  that  shortly  after  my  first  ser- 
mon, beynge  asked  if  he  had  bene  at  the  sermon  that  day, 
answered,  yea :  I  praye  you  said  he  how  lyked  you  him  ? 
Mary  sayed  he,  even  as  I  lyked  hym  alwayes,  a  sediciouse 
fcllowe.  Oh  lord  he  pinched  me  ther  in  dede,  nay  he  had 
rather  a  ful  bytte  at  me.  Yet  I  comfort  my  self  with  that, 
that  Christ  hym  selfe  was  noted  to  be  a  sturrer  up  of  the 
people  against  the  Emperoure,  and  was  contented  to  be 
called  sediciouse.  It  becommeth  me  to  take  it  in  good 
worthe,  I  am  not  better  than  he  was.  In  the  kings  daies 
that  dead  is,  a  meanye  of  us  were  called  together  before 
hym  to  saye  our  myndes  in  certaine  matters.  In  the  end 
one  kneleth  me  downe,  and  accuseth  me  of  sedicion,  that  I 
had  preached  sediciouse  doctryne.  A  heavye  salutacion, 
and  a  hard  poynte  of  suche  a  mans  doynge,  as  yf  I  shoulde 
name  hym,  ye  woulde  not  thinke  it.  The  king  turned  to 
me  and  sayed.  What  saye  you  to  that  syr  ?  Then  I 
kneled  downe  and  turned  me  firste  to  myne  accuser,  and 
requyred  hym. 

"  Syr  what  fourme  of  preachinge  woulde  you  appoynt 
me  to  preache  before  a  Kynge  ?  Wold  you  have  me  for  to 
preache  nothynge  as  concernynge  a  Kynge  in  the  Kynges 
sermon  ?  Have  you  any  commyssion  to  appoynt  me 
what  I  shal  preache.  Besydes  this,  I  asked  him  dyvers 
other  questions,  and  he  wold  make  no  answere  to  none  of 
them  all.  He  had  nothing  to  saye.  Then  I  turned  me 
to  the  Kynge,  and  submitted  my  selfe  to  hys  Grace  and 
sayed  I  never  thought  my  selfe  worthy,  nor  I  never  sued 
to  be  a  preacher  before  youre  grace,  but  I  was  called  to  it, 
and  would  be  willynge  if  you  mislike  me,  to  geve  place  to 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    129 

mi  betters.  For  I  grant  ther  be  a  great  many  more  worthy 
of  the  roume  then  I  am.   .   .   . 

"  When  I  was  in  trouble,  it  was  objected  an[d]  sayed 
unto  me,  yat  I  was  singular,  that  no  manne  thought  as  I 
thought,  that  I  loved  a  syngularyte  in  all  that  I  dyd,  and 
that  I  tooke  a  way,  contrary  to  the  kynge,  and  the  whole 
parliamente,  and  that  I  was  travayled  with  them,  that  had 
better  wyttes  then  I,  that  I  was  contrari  to  them  al. 
Marye  syr  thys  was  a  sore  thunder  bolte.  I  thought  it  an 
yrksome  thinge  to  be  alone,  and  to  have  no  fellowe.  I 
thought  it  was  possyble  it  myghte  not  be  true  that  they 
tolde  me.  ...  So  thoughte  I,  there  be  more  of  myne 
opinion  then  I,  I  thought  I  was  not  alone.  I  have  nowe 
gotten  one  felowe  more,  a  companyon  of  sedition,  and  wot 
ye  who  is  my  felow  ?     Esai  the  Prophete.   .   .   . 

"  I  am  contente  to  beare  the  title  of  sedicious  with 
Esai.  Thankes  be  to  God,  I  am  not  alone,  I  am  in  no 
singularyte.  This  same  man  that  layed  sedycyon  thus  to 
my  charge,  was  asked  an  other  tyme  whether  he  were  at 
the  sermon  at  Paules  crosse,  he  answered  that  he  was 
ther,  and  beynge  asked  what  news  ther.  Mary  quod  he, 
wonderful  newes,  we  were  ther  clean  absolved,  my 
Mule  and  al  had  ful  absolucion,  ye  may  se  by  thys, 
that  he  was  suche  a  one  that  rode  on  a  mule  and  that  he 
was  a  gentylman. 

"In  dede  hys  Mule  was  wyser  than  he,  for  I  dare 
saye,  the  Mule  never  sclaundered  the  Preacher.  Oh  what 
an  unhappy  chaunce  had  thys  Mule  to  carye  suche  an 
Asse  uppon  hys  backe.  I  was  there  at  the  sermon  my 
selfe,  in  the  ende  of  his  sermon  he  gave  a  generall  absolu- 
cion, and  as  farre  as  I  remember  these,  or  suche  other 
lyke  were  his  wordes,  but  at  the  leaste,  I  am  sure,  thys  was 
hys  meanynge.  As  manye  as  do  knowledge  your  selves  to 
be  synners,  and    confesse   the   same   and   standes   not  in 


ijo     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

defence  of  it,  and  hartelye  abhorreth  it,  and  will  beleve  in 
the  death  of  christ,  and  be  conformable  thereunto,  Ego 
absolvo  voSy  quod  he.  Now  sayeth  thys  gentylman,  his 
mule  was  absolved.  The  preacher  absolved  but  such  as 
were  sorye,  and  dyd  repente.  Be  lyke  then  she  dyd 
repent  her  stumblynge,  hys  Mule  was  wiser  then  he  a 
greate  deale.  I  speake  not  of  worldely  wysedom,  for 
therein  he  is  to  wyse,  yes,  he  is  so  wyse,  that  wyse  men 
marvayle  howe  he  came  truly  by  the  tenth  part  of  that  he 
hath.  But  in  wisdome  which  consisteth  In  rebus  dei.  In 
rebus  salutis^  in  godlye  matters  and  appartaynyng  to  our 
salvacion,  in  this  wysdome  he  is  as  blynd  as  a  beatel. 
They  be,  I'anquam  equus  et  Mulus,  in  qui  bus  non  est  intel- 
lectus.  Like  Horses  and  Mules  that  have  no  under- 
standynge.  If  it  were  true  that  the  Mule  repented  hyr  of 
her  stumbling  I  thynke  she  was  better  absolved  than  he. 
I  praye  God  stop  his  mouth,  or  els  to  open  it  to  speke  bet- 
ter, and  more  to  hys  glory." 

Again,  in  the  fifth  sermon  he  is  boldly  exposing  the 
then  common  practice  of  taking  bribes  in  office,  selling 
appointments,  and  the  like.  "  One  wyl  say,  peradventure, 
you  speake  unsemelye  ...  so  to  be  agaynste  the  offi- 
cers, for  takynge  of  rewardes.  .  .  .  Ye  consyder  not  the 
matter  to  the  bottome.  Theyr  offices  be  bought  for  great 
sommes,  nowe  howe  shall  they  receyve  theyr  money 
agayne  but  by  brybynge.  .  .  .  Some  of  them  gave  CC 
poundes,  some  vC  pounde,  some  II  M  pounde.  And 
how  shal  they  gather  up  thys  money  agayne  but  by 
healpynge  themselves  in  theyre  office?  .  .  .  If  thei  bei, 
thei  must  needes  sel,  for  it  is  wittily  spoken.  Vendere  jure 
potest)  emerat  ille  prius^  he  may  lawefully  sel  it,  he  bought 
it  before.  .  .  .  Ommia  venelia.  Al  thinges  bought  for 
money.  I  mervaile  the  ground  gapes  not  and  devours 
us.   .   .   .  Ther  was  a  patron  in  England  that  had  a  bene- 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    131 

fice  fallen  into  hys  hande  and  a  good  brother  of  mine 
came  unto  hym  and  brought  hym  XXX  Apples  in  a 
dysh  and  gave  them  hys  man  to  carrye  them  to  hys 
mayster.  .  .  .  This  man  commeth  to  his  mayster  and 
presented  hym  wyth  the  dyshe  of  Apples,  sayinge,  Syr 
suche  a  man  hathe  sente  you  a  dyshe  of  frute,  and  desyreth 
you  to  be  good  unto  hym  for  such  a  benefyce.  Tushe 
tushe,  quod  he,  thys  is  no  apple  matter.  I  wyll  none  of 
hys  apples.  .  .  .  The  man  came  to  the  pryest  agayne,  and 
toulde  him  what  hys  mayster  sayed.  Then  quod  the 
priest,  desyre  hym  yet  to  prove  one  of  them  for  my  sake, 
he  shal  find  them  much  better  then  they  loke  for.  He 
cutte  one  of  them  and  founde  ten  peces  of  golde  in  it. 
Mary  quod  he,  thys  is  a  good  apple.  The  pryest  standyng 
not  farre  of,  herynge  what  the  Gentleman  sayed,  cryed  out 
and  answered,  they  are  all  one  apples  I  warrante  you  syr, 
they  grewe  all  on  one  tree,  and  have  all  one  taste.  Well, 
he  is  a  good  fellowe,  let  hym  have  it,  quod  the  patrone," 
etc. 

It  is  evidence  of  the  venality  of  this  time  that  the 
honest  bishop's  denunciation  did  not  much  to  impress  his 
audience,  for  presently  I  find  him  exclaiming,  "  It  is  taken 
for  a  laughynge  matter,  wel,  I  wyl  gooe  on." 

And  then  he  does  "  gooe  on,"  with  a  vengeance.  His 
sermons  were,  as  I  said,  mostly  extempore,  and  we  there- 
fore find  them  often  prolix  and  wordy.  But  he  can  tell  a 
story  in  a  few  right  English  terms  when  he  comes  to  it. 
Listen  to  this,  for  example,  as  a  model  of  concise  narra- 
tion. He  is  "  going  on,"  in  the  same  strain  of  attack 
upon  bribery.  It  has,  he  continues,  even  gotten  in  the 
courts,  among  judges  and  juries.  "  I  can  tell,"  he  cries, 
"  where  one  man  slew  another,  in  a  tounship,  and  was 
attached  upon  the  same,  XII  men  were  impaneled,  the 
man  hadde  frendes,  the  Shryve   laboured  the  bench,  the 


132     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

XI 1   men  stacke  at  it  and  sayed,  except  he  woulde  dis- 
burse XII  crownes  they  woulde  fynde  hym  gyltye. 

"  Meanes  were  found  that  the  XII  crownes  was  payed. 
The  quest  commes  in  and  sayes  not  giltye.  Here  was  a 
not  gyltye  for  XII  crownes.  And  some  of  the  bench 
were  hanged,  thei  were  wul  served.  .  .  .  Crownes  ?  If 
theyr  crownes  were  shaven  to  the  shoulders  they  were 
served  wel  inoughe." 

Again,  in  the  sixth  sermon  he  is  stoutly  upholding  the 
good  of  preaching  :  you  must  be  saved  by  preaching,  you 
must  come  to  church,  he  says  ;  better  come  with  a  bad 
motive  than  not  come  at  all  ;  and  so  he  adds  a  story  in 
his  quaint  old  way  : 

"  I  had  rather  ye  shoulde  come  of  a  naughtye  mynde,  to 
heare  the  worde  of  God,  for  noveltye,  or  for  curiositie  to 
heare  some  pastime,  then  to  be  awaye.  I  had  rather  ye 
shoulde  come  as  the  tale  is  by  the  Gentel-woman  of  Lon- 
don :  one  of  her  neyghbours  mette  her  in  the  streate,  and 
sayed  mestres,  whither  go  ye  ?  Mary  sayed  she,  I  am 
goynge  to  S.  Tomas  of  Acres  to  the  sermon,  I  coulde 
not  slepe  al  thys  laste  night,  and  I  am  goynge  now  thether, 
I  never  fayled  of  a  good  nap  there  ;  and  so  I  had  rather 
ye  should  a  napping  to  the  sermons  than  not  to  go  at  al. 
For  with  what  mind  so  ever  ye  come,  thoughe  ye  come  for 
an  ill  purpose,  yet  peradventure  ye  may  chaunce  to  be 
caught  or  ye  go,  the  preacher  may  chaunce  to  catche  you 
on  hys  hoke." 

It  would  seem  that  his  noble  auditory  was  sometimes 
noisy  ;  and  he  does  not  hesitate  to  rebuke  them.  For 
example,  in  the  sixth  sermon  I  find  him  suddenly  breaking 
away  from  his  matter  to  speak  as  follows  : 

"  I  remember  nowe  a  saying  of  Sayncte  Chrisostome, 
and  peradventure  it  myght  come  here  after  in  better 
place,  but   yet   I   wyll  take  it,  whiles  it  commeth  to  my 


Bishop  Latimer 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    133 

mind.  The  saying  is  this.  El  loquentum  eum  audierunt  in 
siientio^ferinon  locutionis  non  interrumpentes.  They  harde 
hym,  sayeth  he,  in  Silence,  not  interruptynge  the  order  of 
his  preachynge.  He  meanes  they  hard  hym  quietely,  with- 
out any  shovelynge  of  feete  or  walkynge  up  and  downe. 
Suerly  it  is  an  yl  mysordar,  that  foike  shalbe  walkyng  up 
and  down  in  the  sermon  tyme  (as  I  have  sene  in  this  place 
thys  Lente)  and  there  shalbe  suche  bussynge  and  bussynge 
in  the  preachers  eare  that  it  maketh  hym  often  tymes  to 
forget  hys  matter.  O  let  us  consider  the  Kynges  Maies- 
tyes  goodnes,  Thys  place  was  prepared  for  banketynge  of 
the  bodye,  and  hys  Maiestye  hath  made  it  a  place  for  the 
comforte  of  the  soule.  .  »  .  Consider  where  ye  be,  fyrst 
ye  oughte  to  have  a  reverence  to  Godds  word,  and 
thoughe  it  be  preached  by  pore  men,  yet  it  is  the  same 
worde  that  oure  Savioure  spoke.  .  .  .  Heare  in  silence, 
as  Chrisostom  sayeth.  It  maye  chance  that  sume  in  the 
companye  may  fall  sicke,  or  be  diseased,  if  therbe  any 
suche,  let  them  go  away,  with  silence,  let  them  leave  their 
salutacions  till  they  come  in  the  courte,  let  them  departe 
with  silence." 

Again,  here  is  an  extract  which  gives  us  a  cunning  re- 
minder of  the  theological  arguments  common  in  those 
days,  and  of  Latimer's  adroitness  in  this  particular.  He 
is  preaching  of  the  time  when  the  Saviour  went  into  Simon 
Peter's  boat  and  told  him  to  put  forth  from  the  shore. 
His  opponents,  it  seems,  had  made  an  argument  of  the 
Pope's  supremacy  founded  upon  the  fact  that  Christ  chose 
Simon  Peter's  boat  rather  than  any  other,  and  spoke  to 
Peter  in  the  singular  number  instead  of  addressing  other 
disciples.  Here  is  the  bishop's  treatment  of  that  argu- 
ment, in  which,  besides  his  polemic  skill,  come  out  some 
pleasant  touches  of  life  in  those  days. 

"  Wei,  he  commes  to  Simons  bote,  and  why  rather  to 


134     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Simon's  bote  then  an  other.  1  wyl  aunswere,  as  I  find  in 
experience  in  my  selfe.  I  came  hither  to-day  from  Lam- 
beth in  a  whirry  and  when  I  came  to  take  my  bote,  the 
water  men  came  about  me,  as  the  maner  is,  and  he  wold 
have  me,  and  he  wold  have  me.  I  toke  one  of  them. 
Nowe  ye  wyll  aske  me  why  I  came  in  yat  bote,  rather 
then  in  another,  because  I  woulde  go  into  that  that  I  se 
stande  nexte  me,  it  stode  more  commodiouslye  for  me. 
And  so  did  Christe  by  Simon's  bote.  It  stode  nerer  for 
him,  he  sawe  a  better  seate  in  it.  A  good  natural  rea- 
son.  .   .   . 

"It  foloweth  in  the  text  due  in  ahum.  Here  comes  in 
the  supremitye  of  the  Byshoppe  of  Rome.  .  .  .  And  their 
argumente  is  thys  :  he  spake  to  Peter  onelye,  and  he  spake 
to  hym  in  the  singular  number,  ergo  he  gave  him  such  a 
preeminence  above  the  rest.  A  goodly  argument,  I  wene 
it  be  a  sillogismus,  in  quern  terra  pontus.  I  will  make  a 
lyke  argument,  Oure  Savioure  Christe  sayed  to  ludas, 
whan  he  was  about  to  betraye  hym  quod  facis  fac  citius. 
Nowe,  whan  he  spake  to  Peter  ther  were  none  of  his  dis- 
ciples by,  but  James  and  John,  but  whan  he  spake  to 
ludas  they  were  al  present.  Wei,  he  sayd  unto  him, — 
quod  facis  fac  citius.  Spede  thy  busines,  yat  thou  hast  in 
thy  heade,  do  it.  .  .  .  He  spake  in  the  singular  number 
to  him,  ergo  he  gave  him  some  preeminence.  By  like  he 
made  him  a  Cardinal!,  and  it  mighte  ful  wel  be,  for  they 
have  folowed  ludas  ever  syns.  Here  is  as  good  a  grounde 
for  the  Coledge  of  Cardinalles,  as  the  other  is  for  the 
supremitie  of  the  Bishop  of  Rome.  Oure  Saviour  Christ 
(say  they)  spake  onely  to  Peter  for  preeminence,  because 
he  was  chiefe  of  the  Apostles,  and  you  can  shewe  none 
other  cause.  Ergo  thys  is  the  cause  why  he  spake  to  hym 
in  the  singular  number.     I  dare  say  there  is  never  a  whir- 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    135 

riman  at  Westminster  brydge,  but  he  can  answere  to  thys, 
and  gyve  a  naturall  reason  for  it. 

"  He  knoweth  that  one  man  is  able  to  shove  the  bote, 
but  one  man  was  not  able  to  caste  out  the  nettes,  and  there- 
fore he  sayed  in  the  plural  nomber,  laxate  retia  :  Louse 
youre  nettes  ?  and  he  sayed  in  the  syngular  number  to 
Peter,  launch  out  the  bote,  why  ?  because  he  was  able  to 
do  it." 

But  I  have  too  long  delayed  to  present  you  some  con- 
nected discourse  of  Latimer's.  For  this  purpose  I  have 
selected  the  seventh  sermon,  which  I  give  substantially, 
though  excising  at  least  half  It  is  often  really  comical,  in 
reading  these  sermons,  to  see  the  good  bishop  forget  his 
point,  and  go  feeling  about,  with  all  sorts  of  odd  sayings 
and  makeweight  sentences,  until  he  can  find  the  track 
again.  This  seventh  sermon  was  preached  by  Bishop 
Latimer  just  three  hundred  and  thirty  years  ago  last  Fri- 
day two  weeks,  being  the  Good  Friday  sermon  with  which 
he  closed  his  series  before  the  young  King  Edward  VI. 
Observe  how  it  is  all  so  good  and  grandmotherly  and 
wise :  every  sentence  has  spectacles  on  its  nose,  with  many 
an  occasional  gleam  of  the  deep  old  eyes  peering  over. 
Thus  he  begins  : 

"  ^ae  cunque  scripta  sunt,  nostrayn  doctrinam  scrlpta 
sunt.  Al  thynges  yat  be  written,  thei  be  written  to  be 
our  doctrine.  By  occasion  of  thys  texte  (most  honorable 
audience)  I  have  walked  thys  Lente  in  the  brode  filde  of 
scripture  and  used  my  libertie,  and  intreated  of  such  mat- 
ters as  I  thought  mete  for  thys  auditory.  I  have  had  a 
do  wyth  many  estates,  even  with  the  highest  of  all,  I  have 
entreated  of  the  dutye  of  Kynges,  of  the  dutye  of  males- 
trates,  and  ludges,  of  the  dutye  of  prelates,  allowyng  that 
yat  is  good,  and  disalovv^yng  the  contrary.     I  have  taught 


136     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

that  we  are  all  synners,  I  thinke  there  is  none  of  us  al, 
neither  precher,  nor  hearer,  but  we  maye  be  amended  and 
redresse  our  lyves.  We  maye  all  saye,  yea  all  the  packe 
of  us,  peccavimus  cum  patribus  nostris. 

"  This  day  is  commonlye  called  good  Fryday,  although 
everi  day  ought  to  be  with  us  good  fryday.  Yet  this  day 
we  ar  accustomed  specially  to  have  a  commemoration  and 
remembrance  of  the  passion  of  our  Saviour  Jesu  Christ. 
This  daye  we  have  in  memory  hys  bitter  Passion  and 
death,  which  is  the  remedy  of  our  syn.   .   .   . 

"  The  place  that  I  wyll  intreat  of  is  in  the  XXVI 
Chapiter  of  saynte  Matthewe,  Howbeit,  as  I  intreate  of 
it  I  wyll  borrowe  parte  of  Saynte  Marke  and  saynt  Luke, 
for  they  have  somewhat  that  Saynt  Matthew  hath  not,  and 
especially  Luke.  The  texte  is,  Tunc  cum  venisset  Jesus 
in  villam  quae  dicitur-gethsemani.  Then  when  Jesus  came 
—  some  have  in  villam^  some  in  agrum^  some  in  praedium. 
But  it  is  all  one,  when  Christ  came  into  a  Graunge,  into  a 
peace  of  land,  into  a  fielde,  it  makes  no  matter,  cal  it  what 
ye  wyl,  at  what  tyme  he  had  come  into  an  honest  mans 
house  and  ther  eaten  hys  pascquall  lambe  and  instituted 
and  celebrate  the  lordes  supper,  and  sette  furth  the  blessed 
communion,  then  when  this  was  done,  he  toke  his  way  to 
the  place  where  he  knewe  ludas  would  come.  It  was  a 
solitary  place  and  thither  he  wente  with  hys  leaven 
Apostles.  For  ludas  the  twelfte  was  a  boute  his  busines, 
he  was  occupied  aboute  his  marchandise  and  was  provyd- 
yng  among  the  byshoppes  and  preistes,  to  come  with  an 
imbushment  of  Jewes  to  take  our  saviour  lesus  Christ. 

"  And  when  he  was  come  into  this  felde,  or  grandge, 
this  village,  or  ferme  place,  which  was  called  Gethsemani, 
there  was  a  Garden,  sayth  Luke,  into  the  whych  he  goeth 
and  leves  VIII  of  hys  disciples  without  ;  howbeit,  he  ap- 
poynted  them  what  they  shold  do.      He  sayth,  Sedete  hicj 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    137 

donee  vadam  illuc^  et  orem.  Sit  you  here  whiles  I  go  yon- 
der and  prai. 

"  Hee  lefte  them  there  and  take  no  more  with  him  but 
III,  Peter,  James  and  John,  to  teach  us  that  a  soHtari 
place  is  mete  for  prayer.  ...  He  toke  Peter,  James  and 
John  into  thys  garden.  And  why  dyd  he  take  them 
wyth  hym  rather  then  other .?  mary  those  that  he  had 
taken  before,  to  whom  he  had  reveled  in  the  hyl  the  trans- 
figuracion  and  declaracion  of  his  deitye,  to  se  ye  revelacion 
of  ye  maiestye  of  his  godhead :  now  in  the  garden  he 
reveled  to  the  same  ye  infirmity  of  his  manhood  ;  because 
they  had  tasted  of  the  swete,  he  would  thei  should  taste 
also  of  the  sower.  .  .  .  And  he  began  to  be  heavy  in  hys 
mynd.  .  .  .  And  as  the  soule  is  more  precious  then  the 
bodye  even  so  is  the  paine  of  the  soule  more  grevous  then 
the  paynes  of  the  body.  Therfore  ther  is  another  which 
writteth,  horror  mortis  gravior  ipsa  morte.  The  horrour 
and  ugsomnes  of  death  is  sorer  than  death  it  selfe.  This 
is  the  moste  grevous  paine  that  ever  christ  suffered,  even 
this  pang  that  he  suffered  in  the  garden.  It  is  the  most 
notable  place  one  of  them  in  the  whole  storie  of  ye  pas- 
sion, when  he  sayed,  Anima  mea  tristis  est  usque  ad  mortem. 
My  soule  is  heavy  to  death.  There  was  offered  unto  him 
nowe  the  Image  of  death,  the  Image,  the  sence,  the 
felynge  of  hell,  for  death  and  hell  go  both  together. 

"  I  wyll  entreate  of  thys  Image  of  hell,  whyche  is 
death,  Truelye  no  manne  can  shewe  it  perfectlye,  yet  I 
wyl  do  the  best  I  can  to  make  you  understand  ye  grevouse 
panges  that  oure  Savioure  Christe  was  in  when  he  was  in 
the  garden  ;  as  mans  power  is  not  able  to  beare  it,  so  no 
mans  tong  is  able  to  expresse  it.  Paynters  painte  death 
lyke  a  man  without  skin,  and  a  body  having  nothing  but 
bones.  And  hel  they  paint  it  horible  flames  of  brening 
fier  ;  they  bungell  somwhat  at  it,  thei  come  no  thing  nere 


138     SHAKSPERE  AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

it.  But  thys  is  no  true  payntynge.  No  paynter  can 
paynte  hel  unlesse  he  could  paynte  the  torment  and  con- 
demnation both  of  body  and  soule.  .  .  .  Death  and  hel 
take  unto  them  this  evill  favoured  face  of  fine  and  thor- 
ough sinne.  Synne  was  their  mother.  .  .  .  Therefore 
they  must  have  suche  an  Image  as  their  mother  sinne 
would  geve  them.  An  ugsome  thing  and  an  horrible 
Image  must  it  nedes  be  that  is  brought  in  by  such  a  thyng 
so  hated  of  God,  yea  this  face  of  death  and  hell  is  so  terri- 
ble, that  suche  as  hath  bene  wycked  men  had  rather  be 
hanged  than  abyde  it.  As  Achitophell  that  traytoure  to 
David  lyke  an  ambyciouse  wretche  thought  to  have  come 
to  higher  promotion  and  therefore  conspired  with  Absolom 
against  hys  maiester  David.  He  when  he  sawe  hys  coun- 
sayle  take  no  place,  goes  and  hanges  hym  selfe,  in  contem- 
plation of  thys  evyl  favored  face  of  death.  ludas  also 
when  he  came  wyth  bushementes  to  take  his  maister  Christe 
in  beholdyng  thys  horrible  face  hanged  himselfe. 

"  Yea  the  electe  people  of  God,  the  faythful  havinge  the 
beholdynge  of  thys  face,  (though  God  hath  always  pre- 
served them,  suche  a  good  God  he  is  to  them  that  beleve 
in  hym,  that  he  wyll  not  suffer  them  to  be  tempted  above 
that,  that  they  have  bene  able  to  beare)  yet  for  all  that, 
there  is  nothynge  that  they  complaine  more  sore  then  of 
thys  horrour  of  death.  Go  to  Job.  What  sayeth  he  ? 
Pereat  dies  in  quo  natus  sum,  sus-pendium  elegit  anima  mea. 
Wo  worth  ye  day  that  I  was  born  in,  my  soule  wolde  be 
hanged,  saying  in  his  panges  almooste  he  wyste  not  what. 
Thys  was  when  wyth  the  eye  of  hys  conscience,  and  the 
inwarde  man  he  behelde  the  horrour  of  death  and  hel,  not 
for  any  bodylye  payne  that  he  suffred,  for  when  he  hadde 
byles,  botches,  blaynes,  and  scabbes,  he  suffered  them 
pacientlye.  .  .  .  Kynge  David  also  sayed,  in  contempla- 
tion of  thys  ugsome  face  :  Laboravi  in  genitu  meo.     I  have 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    139 

been  sore  vexed  with  sighyng  and  mourning.  .  .  .  Ther 
be  some  writers  that  saies  Peter,  lames  and  lohn,  were  in 
thys  felynge  at  the  same  tyme,  and  that  Peter  when  he 
sayed  :  Exi  a  me  domine  quia  homo  peccator  sum,  did  taste 
some  part  of  it  he  was  so  astonyshed,  he  wist  not  what  to 
saye.  It  was  not  longe  that  they  were  in  thys  anguyshe, 
some  sayes  longer,  some  shorter,  but  Christ  was  ready  to 
comforte  them,  and  sayed  to  Peter.  Ne  timeas.  Be  not 
afraid.  A  frend  of  myne  tolde  me  of  a  certayne  woman, 
that  was  XVIII  yeares  together  in  it.  I  knewe  a  man 
myself  Bilney,  litle  Bilney,  that  blessed  martyr  of  GOD, 
what  tyme  he  had  hys  fagott,  and  was  come  agayne  to 
Cambrydge  hadde  suche  conflyctes,  wythin  hym  selfe, 
beholdynge  thys  Image  of  death,  that  hys  frendes  were 
afrayed  to  lette  hym  be  alone,  they  were  fayne  to  be  wyth 
hym  daye  and  nyght,  and  comforted  hym,  as  they  coulde, 
but  no  comfortes  would  serve.  As  for  the  comfortable 
places  of  scripture  to  brynge  theym  unto  hym,  it  was  as 
though  a  man  would  runne  hym  throughe  the  herte  wyth  a 
sweard.  Yet  afterwarde  for  all  thys  he  was  revived,  and 
toke  his  death  pacientlye,  and  dyed  wel  againste  the  Tiran- 
nical  sea  of  Rome.  .  .  .  Here  is  a  good  lesson  for  you  my 
fryendes.  If  ever  ye  come  in  daunger,  in  duraunce,  in 
pryson  for  godes  quarrell,  and  hys  sake  (as  he  dyd  for 
purgatorye  matters  .  .  .  )  I  wyl  advyse  you  fyrst  and 
above  al  thing  to  abjure  al  your  fryendes,  all  your  friende- 
shipe,  leave  not  one  unabjured,  it  is  they  that  shall  undo 
you,  and  not  your  ennemyes.  It  was  his  very  friendes, 
that  brought  Bylnye  to  it.  By  this  it  maye  somewhat 
appere  what  oure  savyour  Christe  suffered,  he  doeth  not 
dissemble  it  hym  selfe,  when  he  sayth,  my  soule  is  heavye 
to  death,  he  was  in  so  sore  an  Agony,  that  there  issued 
out  of  hym  as  I  shal  entreate  anon,  droppes  of  bloud,  an 
ugsome  thing  suerly,  whiche  his  fact  and  dede  sheweth  us. 


I40     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

what  horrible  paynes  he  was  in  for  oure  sakes.  .  .  .  He 
woulde  not  helpe  hymselfe  with  his  Godhede.  ...  he  toke 
before  hym  our  synnes,  our  synnes,  not  the  worcke  of 
synnes.  I  meane  not  so,  not  to  do  it,  not  to  commit  it, 
but  ...  to  chause  it,  to  beare  the  stypende  of  it,  and 
that  waye  he  was  the  great  synner  of  the  worlde,  he  bare 
all  the  synne  of  the  worlde  on  hys  backe.  ...  It  was  as 
if  you  woulde  immagin  that  one  man  had  commytted  al  the 
synnes  since  Adam,  you  maye  be  sure  he  shoulde  be  pun- 
ished wyth  the  same  horrour  of  death  in  suche  a  sorte  as  al 
men  in  the  world  shoulde  have  suffered.  Feyne  and  put 
case  our  savyour  Christe  had  committed  al  the  sinnes  of 
the  world,  al  that  I  for  my  parte  have  done,  al  that  you 
for  youre  parte  have  done,  and  that  anye  manne  elles  hath 
done,  if  he  hade  done  all  thys  him  selfe,  his  agony  that  he 
suffered  should  have  bene  no  greater  nor  grevouser,  then 
it  was. 

"...  Well,  he  sayeth  to  his  Discyples.  Sytte  here 
and  praye  wyth  me.  He  wente  a  lytle  way  of,  as  it  were 
a  stones  cast  from  them,  and  falles  to  hys  prayer,  and 
saieth  :  Pater  sipossibile  est  transeat  a  me  calix  iste.  Father 
if  it  be  possyble.  Awaye  wyth  thys  bytter  cuppe,  thys 
outragious  payne. 

"  ...  What  does  he  now,  what  came  to  passe 
nowe,  when  he  had  harde  no  voyce  ?  Hys  father  was 
domme.  He  resortes  to  hys  frendes,  seking  some  comfort 
at  theyr  handes,  seynge  he  had  none  at  his  fathers  hande, 
he  comes  to  hys  disciples,  and  fyndes  them  a  slepe,  he 
spake  unto  Peter,  and  saied.  Ah  Peter,  arte  thou  a  slepe, 
Peter  before  had  bragged  stoutly,  as  though  he  woulde 
have  kylled,  God  have  mercye  upon  hys  soule.  And  nowe 
when  he  shoulde  have  comforted  Christ,  he  was  a  slepe, 
not  once  busse,  nor  basse  to  him,  not  a  word.   .   .  . 

"  What  shall  we  not  resorte  to  oure  frendes  in  tyme  of 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   141 

nede  ?  and  trowe  ye  we  shal  not  fynde  them  a  slepe  ?  Yes 
I  warrante  you,  and  when  we  nede  theyr  helpe  most,  we 
shal  not  have  it.  But  what  shal  we  do,  when  we  shall 
fynde  lacke  in  theym  ?  We  wyll  crye  out  upon  theym, 
upbrayde  them,  chyde,  braule,  fume,  chaufe  and  backbite 
them.  But  Christ  dyd  not  so,  he  excused  hys  fryendes, 
sayinge  : 

"  Vigilate  et  orato  spiritus  quidem  promptus  est,  caro 
autem  infirma.  Oh  (quouth  he)  watch  and  pray,  I  se  wel 
the  spirite  is  ready,  but  the  fleshe  is  weake.   .   .   . 

"  But  now  to  the  passyon  again.  Christ  had  ben 
with  hys  father,  and  felt  no  healpe,  he  had  bene  with  hys 
frendes,  and  had  no  comfort,  he  had  prayed  twyse,  and 
was  not  herd,  what  dyd  he  now  ?  dyd  he  geve  prayer  over  ? 
no,  he  goeth  agayne  to  hys  father,  and  sayeth  the  same 
agayne,  father  if  it  be  possyble  awaye  with  this  cup.  .  .  . 
He  prayed  thryse  and  was  not  herd,  let  us  sinners  praye 
thre  score  tymes,  folkes  are  very  dul  now  adaies  in 
praier.   .   .   . 

"  What  comes  of  thys  geve  in  the  ende  ?  Wel,  nowe 
he  prayeth  agayne,  he  resorteth  to  his  father  agayne. 
Angore  correptus,  prolixius  orabat.  He  was  in  sorer  paines, 
in  more  anguishe,  then  ever  he  was,  and  therefore  he 
prayeth  longer,  more  ardentlye,  more  farventlye,  more 
vehementilie,  then  ever  he  did  before.  ...  It  pleased 
God  to  here  his  sonnes  prayer,  and  sent  hym  an  angell  to 
corroborate,  to  strengthen,  to  comforte  hym.  .  .  .  When 
the  aungell  had  comforted  hym,  and  when  thys  horroure 
of  deathe  was  gone,  he  was  so  strong,  that  he  offered  him- 
selfe  to  ludas,  and  sayed.  I  am  he.  .  .  .  The  Jewes  had 
hym  to  Cayphas  and  Annas,  and  there  they  whypt  hym, 
and  bet  hym,  they  sette  a  crowne  of  sharpe  thorne  upon 
hys  head,  and  nayled  hym  to  a  tree,  yet  al  thys  was  not 
so  bytter  as  thys  horrour  of  death,  and  thys  Agony,  that 


142     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

he  suffered  in  the  gardayne  in  such  a  degree  as  is  dewe  to 
al  the  synnes  of  the  worlde,  and  not  to  one  man's  synne. 

"  Well,  thys  passion  is  our  remedye,  it  is  the  satissfac- 
tion  for  oure  synnes.  Hys  soule  descended  to  hell  for  a 
tyme.  Here  is  much  a  do,  these  newe  upstartynge  spir- 
ites  say  Christ  never  descended  into  hel,  neyther  body  nor 
soule.  In  scorne  they  wil  aske,  was  he  ther,  what  did  he 
there  ?  What  if  we  cannot  tell  what  he  dyd  there?  The 
Crede  goeth  no  further,  but  sayeth,  he  descended  thither. 
What  is  that  to  us  if  we  cannot  tell,  seynge  we  were 
taughte  no  further.  Paulle  was  taken  up  into  the  third 
heaven  ;  aske  lykewyse  what  he  sawe  when  he  was  carried 
thyther ;  you  shall  not  fynde  in  scripture  what  he  sawe  or 
what  he  dyd  there  ;  shal  we  not  therfore  beleve  that  he 
was  there  ? 

"  These  arrogant  spirites,  spirites  of  vayne  glorye,  be- 
cause they  knowe  not  by  any  expre(e)sse  scripture  the 
order  of  his  doynges  in  hell,  they  wil  not  beleve  that  ever 
he  descended  into  hell.  Indede  thys  article  hathe  not  so 
full  scripture,  so  many  places  and  testimonyes  of  scriptures 
as  other  have;  yet  it  hath  enough  :  it  hath  II  or  III 
textes,  and  if  it  had  but  one,  one  texte  of  scripture  is  of  as 
good  and  lawfull  authoritye  as  a  M.  [thousand]  and  of  as 
certayne  truth.  It  is  not  to  be  wayed  by  the  multitude  of 
textes.   .   .   . 

"  There  be  some  greate  clarkes  that  take  my  parte, 
and  I  perceyve  not  what  evill  can  come  of  it,  in  saying, 
yat  our  Saviour  Christe  dyd  not  onely  in  soule  descende 
into  hell,  but  also  that  he  suffered  in  hel  suche  paynes  as 
the  damned  spirites  dyd  suffer  there.  Suerli,  I  beleve 
vereli  for  my  parte,  that  he  suffered  the  paynes  of  hell  pro- 
porcionably,  as  it  correspondes  and  aunsweres  to  the 
whole  synne  of  the  worlde.  He  would  not  suffer  onely 
bodelye  in  the  gardayne  and  upon  the  crosse,  but  also  in 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    143 

hys  soule,  when  it  was  from  the  bodye,  whyche  was  a 
payne  dewe  for  oure  synne.  Some  wrytte  so,  and  I  can 
beleve  it,  that  he  suffered  in  the  very  place,  1  cannot  tell 
what  it  is,  call  it  what  ye  wil,  even  in  the  skaldinge  house, 
in  the  ugsomnes  of  the  place,  in  the  presence  of  the  place, 
suche  payne  as  our  capacitie  cannot  attayne  unto  ;  it  is  some- 
what declared  unto  us  when  we  utter  it  by  these  effectes  : 
by  fyre,  by  gnashynge  of  teth,  by  the  worme  that  gnaweth 
on  the  conscience.  What  so  ever  the  payne  is,  it  is  a 
greate  payne  that  he  suffered  for  us.  I  se  no  inconve- 
nience to  saye  that  Christe  suffered  in  soule  in  hell.  .  .  . 
Whether  he  suffered,  or  wrastled  with  the  spirites,  or  com- 
forted Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob,  I  wyl  not  desier  to 
knowe  ;  if  ye  lyke  not  that  which  I  have  spoken  of  hys 
sufferynge,  let  it  go,  I  wyl  not  strive  in  it.  I  wil  be 
preiudice  to  nobody,  weye  it  as  ye  list.  I  do  but  offer  it 
you  to  consider.  It  is  like  his  soule  did  somwhat,  the 
thre  dayes  that  hys  bodye  lay  in  the  grave.  To  saye  he 
suffered  in  hell  for  us  derogats  nothing  from  his  death, 
for  al  thinges  that  Christ  did  before  his  suffering  on  the 
crosse  and  after  do  worke  oure  salvacion  ;  if  he  had  not 
bene  incarnat,  he  had  not  dyed  ;  he  was  beneficial  to  us 
with  al  thinges  he  did.   .   .   . 

"...  Oure  Savioure  Christe  hath  lefte  behynd  hym 
a  remembraunce  of  hys  passion,  the  blessed  communion, 
the  celebration  of  the  Lordes  supper,  a  lacke  it  hath  bene 
longe  abused,  as  the  sacrifices  were  before,  in  the  oulde 
law.  .  .  .  There  comes  other  after,  and  they  consider  not 
the  fayth  of  Abraham,  and  the  Patriarkes,  but  do  theyr 
sacrifice  accordynge  to  theyre  owne  imaginacion,  even  so 
came  it  to  passe  wyth  oure  blessed  communion.  ...  If 
he  be  gyltye  of  the  bodye  of  Christ,  that  takes  it 
unworthely,  he  fetcheth  greate  comforte  at  it,  that  eate  it 
v/orthely.      He  doothe  eate  it  worthelye  that  doeth  it  in 


144     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

fayeth.  In  fayeth  ?  in  what  fayeth  ?  ...  It  is  no  bryb- 
ynge  judges  or  justices  faith,  no  rentreasers  fayeth,  no 
lease  mongers  fayeth,  no  seller  of  benefices  faith,  but  the 
^  fayth  in  the  passion  of  oure  Savioure  Christ;  we  must 
beleve  that  oure  Savioure  Christ  hath  taken  us  agayne  to 
hys  favoure,  that  he  hath  delivered  us  hys  owne  bodye  and 
bloude  to  plead  with  the  dyvel,  and  by  merite  of  hys  owne 
passion,  of  his  owne  mere  liberalitie. 

"  This  is  the  fayth  I  tel  you  we  must  come  to  the 
communion  with.  .  .  .  Fayth  is  a  noble  duches,  she  hath 
ever  her  gentleman  usher  going  before  her,  the  confessing 
ofsinnes;  she  hath  a  trayne  after  her,  the  frute  of  good 
workes,  the  walking  in  the  commandments  of  god.  He 
yat  beleveth  wyll  no[t]  be  idle,  he  wyl  walke,  he  will  do 
his  business  ;  have  ever  the  gentleman  usher  with  you. 
So  if  ye  wil  trye  fayth,  remember  this  rule,  consider 
whether  the  trayne  be  waytinge  upon  her.  If  you  have 
another  fayth  then  thys,  ye  are  lyke  to  go  [to]  ye  Scalding 
house,  and  ther  you  shal  have  two  dishes,  wepynge  and 
gnashyng  of  teeth,  muche  good  do  it  you,  you  se  your 
fare.  If  ye  wil  beleve  and  acknowledge  your  synnes  you 
shall  come  to  ye  blessed  communion  of  the  bitter  passion  of 

Christ,  worthily,  and 
so  attayne 
to  ever- 
-lastynge  lyfe,  to 
the  whiche  the 
father  of  hea- 
ven bringe 
you  and 
me. 

A.     M.     E.     N." 


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Richard  Tarieton,  an  Actor  in  Sliakspere's  Plavs 


\r. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 


THE    DOMESTIC    LIFE    OF   SHAKSPERE'S    TIME— IV 

Ralph  Royster  Doyster  and  Gorboduc 


N  my  last  lecture  young  William  Shak- 
spere,  being  then  a  boy  of  eighteen  on 
his  first  visit  to  London,  was  left 
standing  amid  the  crowd  which  had 
assembled  at  Paul's  Cross  on  a  certain 
Sunday  in  the  year  1582  to  hear  the 
sermon. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  young 
man  did  not  stay  as  long  as  reverence  demands  after 
the  last  amen  of  the  services.  The  sermon  had  been 
lengthy  :  it  was  now  growing  afternoon,  and  there  was 
barely  time  to  reach  the  inn  and  snatch  a  hasty  dinner  be- 
fore the  play  would  begin.  It  was  the  custom  at  this 
period  for  a  theatrical  performance  to  commence  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  ;  evening  performances  were  not 
permitted,  for  the  reason  that  they  brought  crowds  on  the 
streets  at  night,  and  in  these  days  a  crowd  on  the  street  in 
London  meant  brawls  and  troubles. 

Shakspere's    dinner    was    matter    of    small    moment 
under  these  circumstances.     He  disposed  of  it  in  a  few 

145 


146    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

minutes,  and  hastily  made  his  way  to  the  Blackfriars 
Theatre.  Here,  as  he  mingled  with  the  crowd  at  the 
doors,  a  grave  discussion  went  on  within  his  mind.  The 
price  of  admission  to  the  "  yard  "  or  pit  of  the  theatre, 
where  he  would  have  to  stand  throughout  the  perform- 
ance in  the  midst  of  a  motley  throng  of  people,  was  six- 
pence (it  varied  from  one  penny  to  sixpence),  while  the 
better  places  were  from  a  shilling  to  two  shillings,  the 
best,  half  a  crown.  Shakspere  had  but  a  half-crown  in  all 
the  world  ;  yet  an  imperious  desire  to  see  the  play  unin- 
terrupted and  to  the  best  advantage  possessed  him  ;  he 
felt  a  dim  prophecy  of  new  plays  smouldering  in  his 
heart ;  what  was  a  mere  trifle  and  amusement  to  other 
people  was  matter  of  life  and  death  to  him.  It  was 
therefore  with  a  sort  of  sublime  reliance  upon  the  God  who 
takes  care  of  genius — a  reliance  all  the  more  sublime 
since  it  was  purely  instinctive,  and  not  explicit  or  formu- 
lated in  any  way  —  that  the  young  man  advanced,  handed 
forth  his  whole  earthly  fortune,  and  asked  for  a  place  in 
one  of  the  boxes,  or  "rooms,"  as  they  were  then  called. 

As  he  entered  the  "  room  "  he  observed  that  a  hand- 
some young  cavalier,  of  charming  form  but  slight  in 
stature,  passed  lightly  in  behind  him  and  seated  himself 
modestly  somewhat  in  the  background.  Beyond  these 
circumstances,  however,  Shakspere  noticed  nothing ;  the 
crowd,  the  novelty  of  the  playhouse,  all  that  wild  fascina- 
tion of  the  theatre  which  is  plain  enough  to  those  who 
have  felt  it  and  wholly  unintelligible  to  those  who  have 
not  —  these  wrapped  him  away  into  an  ecstasy  of  content. 
He  was  not  anxious  for  the  play  to  begin:  he  could 
have  sat  for  hours  so  ;  an  indescribable  glory  and  sweet- 
ness of  potential  fame  filled  the  air  about  him  ;  it  was  as  if 
he  caught  a  breath  from  that  perfect  altar  of  love  and 
reverence  which  all  the  ages  were  to  distil  for  him. 


The  Stage  in  the  Red  Bull  Playhouse 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    147 

Sitting  so,  in  a  great  calm,  large-eyed,  observant, 
Shakspere  heard  the  trumpet  sound  for  the  third  time, 
and  recognised  it  as  the  customary  signal  for  the  play  to 
besin. 

The  large  platform  at  the  other  end  of  the  theatre 
which  now  appeared  before  Shakspere's  eyes  was  a  very 
much  simpler  affair  than  a  modern  stage.  There  were  no 
tall  scenes,  no  complex  arrangements  of  grooves  and  pul- 
leys and  "  flies  "  and  painted  scenery  such  as  constitute  the 
accessories  of  the  most  modest  theatre  in  our  time.  As 
the  curtain  parted  in  the  middle  and  drew  back  to  each 
side,  the  actors  appeared  upon  a  platform  which  was  hung 
with  arras,  while,  above,  a  hanging  of  some  blue  stuff  rep- 
resented the  heavens.  Projecting  over  the  stage  in  the 
background  was  a  sort  of  porch  or  balcony  which  had 
uses  as  various  as  the  plays  which  were  enacted  before  it, 
ranging  from  Mount  Olympus  to  the  battlements  of  a 
castle.  There  were  at  this  time  no  painted  scenes,  such 
as  ours  :  when  the  place  of  the  action  changed  the  new 
locality  was  conveyed  to  the  audience  by  hanging  out  a 
board  with  the  name  of  the  city  or  land  painted  on  it ; 
thus  in  one  act  a  board  would  be  hung  out  with 
"  Milan  "  on  it,  in  large  letters  ;  in  the  next  act  another 
board  might  appear  with  "Verona"  inscribed.^  If  the 
scenes  were  interiors,  then  some  little  simple  stage 
property  might  indicate  changes :  the  appearance  of  a 
bed,  for  instance,  might  indicate  Dame  Custance's  apart- 
ment ;  a  throne  on  some  part  of  the  stage  might  convert 
it  into  a  king's  chamber  of  audience  ;  and  so  on.  A  little 
later,  however,  I  fancy  that  somewhat  more  elaborate  stage 

1  **  What  childe  is  there  that  com-  Thebes  ?"  See  also  page  63  et  seq. 

ming  to  a  Play,  and  seeing  Thebes  of   the    Apologie  for    Players.    Cf. 

written   in   great    letters    upon    an  masque  scene  in    Gondibert   (Lon- 

olde  doore,   doth  believe  that  it  is  don,  1672),  page  380. 


148     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

properties  were  used.  In  the  Prologue  to  Ben  Jonson's 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour  I  find  some  comical  allusions  to 
certain  stage  devices  which  were  in  use  at  the  time  that 
play  was  written,  and  which  appear  to  have  excited  great 
disgust  in  the  soul  of  the  irascible  Ben  by  their  trans- 
parent absurdity.  I  give  you  this  Prologue  here  with  the 
less  hesitation  because  it  connects  itself  very  pleasantly 
with  our  hero's  career  as  an  actor  afterwards,  Shakspere 
himself  having  played  one  of  the  parts  in  this  comedy  of 
Jonson's  in  after  years,  probably  that  of  Knowell. 

Jonson,  you  observe,  commences  in  the  very  Prologue 
to  abuse  directly  some  of  those  vices  of  shallow  artifice 
and  pretence  which  his  comedy  of  Every  Man  in  his  Hu- 
mour was  intended  to  satirise  indirectly  : 

Though  need  make  many  poets,  and  some  such 
As  art  and  nature  have  not  bettered  much  ; 
Yet  ours  for  want  hath  not  so  loved  the  stage 
As  he  dare  serve 'the  ill  customs  of  the  age. 
Or  purchase  your  delight  at  such  a  rate 
As  for  it,  he  himself  must  justly  hate. 

And  having  thus  generally  condemned  the  playwrights 
who  truckled  to  the  taste  of  the  groundlings,  he  proceeds 
to  detail  some  of  their  absurd  violations  of  the  unities  of 
time  and  space  : 

To  make  a  child  now  swaddled  to  proceed 
Man,  and  then  shoot  up  in  one  beard  and  weed 
Past  threescore  years  ;  or,  with  three  rusty  swords 
And  help  of  some  few  foot  and  half-foot  words 
Fight  over  York  and  Lancaster's  long  jars 
And  in  the  tyring  house  bring  wounds  to  scars. 
He  rather  prays  you  will  be  pleased  to  see 
One  such  to-day  as  other  plays  should  be ; 


rr^ 


t 


TRAGEDIES 

AND 

COMEDIES 

COLLECTED    \1<[  i O 

ONE  VOLVME. 
Viz.       ,   ■  , 

1.  Antonio  and  MelUdd, 

2.  %^ntonio*s  Revenge, 

3.  TheTragedtf  of  Sofhonish^^    , 

4.  rrhatyott  yyUl, 

5.  The  Favfne, 

6.  The  V>Htch  Conrte^an, 


i 


■  « 

V  t 


\:       \ 


(1  tol  iiii<    I  -fc 


'» 


LONDON, 

Printed  by  t^/.  i»i  formU/amSlied^isA 
at  the  Harrow  in  Britaines'Bur(fg, 

.     ^ ;    t  ^ 

— — • •   '    — * I    II   I    <r.i ■-       ■  '*s| 


—  ««"'»- 11     i>    I  

I 


Title-page  of  Ben  Jonson's  "Tragedies  and  Comedies" 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    149 

Where  neither  chorus  wafts  you  o'er  the  seas, 
Nor  creaking  throne  comes  down  the  boys  to  please  ; 
Nor  nimble  squib  is  seen  to  make  afeard 
The  gentlewomen  ;   nor  tempestuous  drum 
Rumbles  to  tell  you  when  the  storm  doth  come  ; 
But  deeds  and  language  such  as  men  do  use 
And  persons  such  as  comedy  would  choose 
When  she  would  shew  an  image  of  the  times 
And  sport  with  human  follies,  not  with  crimes. 

With  these  hints  of  the  appearance  of  the  stage  as  Shak- 
spere  saw  it  in  1582,  I  am  now  to  set  before  you  the  play 
which  he  saw.  In  selecting  for  this  purpose  some  repre- 
sentative of  the  drama  as  it  existed  before  Shakspere  began 
to  write,  I  have  found  great  trouble  with  the  embarrass- 
ment of  riches.  Perhaps  the  most  popular  play  about 
this  time  was  T'he  Spanish  'Tragedy^  by  Thomas  Kyd,  a 
play  which  has  probably  more  bloodshed  and  red  horror 
in  it  than  any  other  that  ever  was  written. 

I  should  have  liked,  also,  to  make  you  witness  along 
with  Shakspere  some  play  of  his  rival  and  good  hater, 
Robert  Greene.  If  I  could  read  to  you  Greene's  Edward 
II,  or  one  of  his  comedies,  I  think  you  would  agree  with 
me  that  he  is  quite  the  loveliest,  brightest,  and  most  musi- 
cal writer  that  preceded  Shakspere.  He  was  only  four 
years  older  than  Shakspere,  but  seems  to  have  taken  to 
authorship  earlier.  Greene  died  in  1592,  being  then  only 
thirty-two  years  old.  It  was  on  his  death-bed  that  he  ex- 
pressed that  bitter  hatred  of  Shakspere  which  has  come 
down  to  us.  This  expression  was  in  the  form  of  a  pam- 
phlet which  Greene  wrote  in  the  course  of  his  last  illness, 
and  which  was  published  by  his  executor,  Henry  Chettle, 
soon  after  he  died,  under  the  title  of  Greene's  Groatsworth 
of  Wit  Bought  with  a  Million  of  Repentance.  In  this 
pamphlet  occurs  the  following  famous  sentence,  in  which 


I50     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Greene  warns  the  players  of  his  time  against  such  fellows 
as  Shakspere :  "  Yes,  trust  them  not ;  for  there  is  an 
upstart  Crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers,  that  with  his 
Tygers  heart  wrapt  in  a  Players  hide,  supposes  he  is  as 
well  able  to  bumbast  out  a  blanke  verse  as  the  best  of 
you  ;  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  fac  totum^  is  in  his 
owne  conceit  the  onely  Shake-scene  in  a  countrie."  The 
propriety  of  calling  Shakspere  a  Johannes  factotum  was 
that  he  could  not  only  play  but  could  write  plays,  either 
original  or  adapted  ;  and  the  words  "  Tygers  heart  wrapt 
in  a  Players  hide"  point  to  a  line — "Oh  tyger's  heart 
wrapt  in  a  woman's  hide" — which  occurs  in  the  third 
part  of  King  Henry  VI^  and  thus  was  probably  intended 
by  Greene  to  hint  at  Shakspere's  plagiarism  from  himself. 

It  is  gratifying  to  record  that  this  Henry  Chettle  who 
published  Greene's  aspersion  upon  Shakspere  almost  im- 
mediately retracted  his  own  part  in  that  business  and 
apologised  for  it  in  the  most  liberal  way.  It  was  only 
some  three  months  after  the  appearance  of  Greene's  pam- 
phlet that  Chettle  published  one  of  his  own,  called  Kind- 
Harts  Dream^  in  which  he  takes  occasion  to  say,  regarding 
his  former  injury  to  Shakspere  :  "  I  am  as  sory  as  if  the 
originall  fault  had  beene  my  owne,  because  my  selfe  have 
seene  his  [Shakspere's]  demeanor  no  lesse  civill,  than  he 
exelent  in  the  qualitie  he  professes ;  besides,  divers  of 
worship  have  reported  his  uprightness  of  dealing,  which 
argues  his  honesty,  and  his  facetious  grace  in  writting, 
that  aprooves  his  art." 

I  think,  as  I  said,  you  would  have  found  it  interesting 
to  trace  a  distinct  influence  of  Greene  upon  Shakspere 
after  seeing  some  of  Greene's  work.  But  I  remember 
that  I  have  not  yet  brought  before  you  either  the  first 
English  comedy  or  the  first  English  tragedy  :  and  these 
two  works  are  so  important  —  as  the  most  striking  phase 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    151 

in  that  transition  from  the  old  moraHties  and  interludes 
to  Shakspere's  plays  which  I  have  been  endeavouring  to 
trace  out  before  you  —  that  I  have  concluded  to  avail 
myself  of  this  last  opportunity  to  acquaint  you  with  them. 
Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  young  William  Shakspere  — 
whom  we  have  kept  all  this  time  in  his  "  room  "  or  box  at 
the  Blackfriars,  waiting  for  the  play  to  begin  —  during  this 
visit  to  the  theatre  saw  the  play  called  Ralph  Royster  Doy- 
ster^  which  is  the  first  clearly  developed  English  comedy, 
and  that  on  the  following  Sunday  he  went  again  to  the 
theatre  and  saw  Gorboduc,  otherwise  called  Ferrex  and  Por- 
rex^  which  is  the  first  clearly  developed  English  tragedy. 

The  comedy  of  Ralph  Royster  Doyster  was  written  by 
Nicholas  Udall.  His  name  is  written  also  Woddall  and 
Woodall,  and  I  think  likely  was  called  Woodall,  which  is 
a  good  English  name  still  existing  within  my  knowledge. 
The  date  of  its  composition  was  for  some  time  uncertain  ; 
but  about  sixty  years  ago  Mr.  Collier  happened  to  dis- 
cover that  in  the  third  edition  of  Thomas  Wilson's  Rule 
of  Re  as  on  y  conteinyng  the  Arte  of  Logique,  the  author  quotes 
a  very  artful  and  comical  letter  written  by  one  of  the  char- 
acters in  Udall's  comedy  (which  I  will  presently  read  to 
you)  as  an  example  of  "  Ambiguitie,"  that  is,  of  "  suche 
doubtful  writing,  which  by  reason  of  poincting  mai  have 
double  sense,  and  contrari  meaning,"  and  mentions  that 
the  letter  is  "  taken  out  of  an  enterlude  made  by  Nicholas 
Udall."  As  Wilson's  book  was  entered  at  Stationers' 
Hall  in  1 551,  it  fixes  the  date  of  Udall's  play  as  before 
that  time.  Udall  was  born  in  1504  —  sixty  years,  you 
observe,  before  Shakspere.    He  was  head-master  of  Eton  ; 

1  Gabriel  Harvey  says  in  one  of  his  again:    "If  the  world    should  ap- 

letters:  "I.    .    ,  have  seen  the  mad-  plaud  to  such  roister-doisterly  van- 

brainest  roister-doister  in  a  country  ity,"  etc. 
dashed  out  of  countenance."     And 


152     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

and  it  is  a  little  surprising,  in  view  of  the  genial  nature  of 
his  comedy,  to  find  that  he  was  a  pedagogue  who  did  not 
spare  the  rod  on  his  boys.  Old  Thomas  Tusser's  Five 
Hundred  Points  of  Good  Husbandries  15735  hints  at  Udall's 
severity  in  a  couple  of  stanzas  which  record  Tusser's  own 
experience  at  Udall's  school  : 

From  Powles  I  went,  to  Acton  sent 

To  learne  straight  wayes  the  Latin  phraise, 

Where  fiftie  three  stripes  given  to  mee 

At  once  I  had : 
For  faut  but  small,  or  none  at  all, 
It  came  to  passe,  thus  beat  I  was  ; 
See  Udall  see,  the  mercy  of  thee 

To  me  poore  lad. 

Udall,  though  an  intense  Protestant,  was  in  favour  with 
Qiieen  Mary  and  helped  her  to  translate  Erasmus's  Para- 
phrase of  the  New  Testament  from  the  Latin  into  English. 
He  seems  to  have  been  altogether  a  worthy  and  faithful 
man  ;  wrote  several  other  plays  and  interludes  which  are 
lost ;  and  died  a  few  years  before  Shakspere  was  born. 

The  comedy  of  Ralph  Royster  Doyster  was  published 
in  1566,  though  it  was  acted  probably  twenty  years  before. 
The  following  are  the  dramatis  personae  as  they  appear  in 
the  published  play  : 

Ralph   Royster  Doyster. 

Mathew  Merygreeke. 

Gawyn   Goodluck,  affianced  to  Dame  Custance. 

Tristram  Trustie,  his  friend. 

DoBiNET   DouGHTiE,  boy  to  Royster  Doyster. 

Tom   Trupenie,  servant  to  Dame  Custance. 

Sym   Suresby,  servant  to  Goodluck. 

Scrivener. 

Harpax. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   153 

Dame  Christian   Custance,  a  widow. 
Margerie  Mumblecrust,  her  nurse. 
Tibet  Talkapace, 


.  .  ,  her  maidens 

Annot  Alyface, 

Time^  about  two  days. 

After  the  Prologue,  which  is  in  praise  of  mirth, —  declar- 
ing, among  other  things,  that  the  author  knows 

Nothing  more  commendable  for  a  man's  recreation 
Than  Mirth  which  is  used  in  an  honest  fashion, 
For  Myrth  prolongeth  lyfe  and  causeth  health, 
Mirth  recreates  our  spirites  and  voydeth  pensiveness. 
Mirth  increaseth  amitie,  not  hindering  our  wealth, 
Mirth  is  to  be  used  both  of  more  and  lesse, 
Being  mixed  with  vertue  in  decent  comlynesse, — 

comes  "  Actus  j,  Scaena  j,"  in  which 

Mathewe  Merygreeke  entreth  singing: 

M.  Mery.     As  long  lyveth  the  mery  man  (they  say)  1 
As  doth  the  sory  man,  and  longer  by  a  day. 
Yet  the  Grassehopper  for  all  his  sommer  pipyng 
Sterveth  in  winter  with  hungry  gripyng, 
Therefore  another  savd  sawe  doth  men  advise 
They  they  be  together  both  mery  and  wise. 

And  here  a  point  of  practical  wisdom  occurs  to  him  : 

Yet  wisdom  woulde  that  I  did  myselfe  bethinke 
Where  to  be  provided  this  day  of  meat  and  drinke  : 

1  Compare  Autolycus's  song  in  Winter'' s  Tale: 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 
And  meiTJly  bent  the  stile-a  ; 
Your  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 
Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 


154     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

For  know  ye,  that  for  all  this  merie  note  of  mine, 
He  might  appose  me  now  that  should  aske  where  1  dine 
My  lyving  lieth  heere  and  there,  of  God's  grace. 
Some  time  with  this  good  man,  sometyme  in  that  place, 
Sometime  Lewis  Loytrer  biddeth  me  come  neere, 
Somewhyles  Watkin  Waster  maketh  us  good  cheere, 
Sometime  Davy  Diceplayer  when  he  hath  well  cast 
Keepeth  revell  route  as  long  as  it  will  last. 
Sometime  Tom  Titivile  maketh  us  a  feast. 
Sometime  with  Sir  Hugh  Pye  I  am  a  bidden  gueast, 
Sometime  at  Nichol  Neverthrives  I  get  a  soppe, 
Sometime  I  am  feasted  with  Bryan  Blenkinsoppe, 
Sometime  I  hang  on  Hankyn  Hoddydoddies  sleeve, 
But  thys  day  on  Ralph  Royster  Doyster's  by  hys  leeve. 
For  truely  of  all  men  he  is  my  chiefe  banker 
Both  for  meate  and  money,  and  my  chiefe  shootanker. 

Royster  Doyster  is  the  great  prototype  of  that  large  class 
of  weak  brethren  who  figure  as  "  gulls  "  so  prominently 
in  the  later  comedies,  especially  those  of  Ben  Jonson. 
Merygreeke  goes  on  to  give  a  very  Hvely  portrait  of  him  : 

All  the  day  long  is  he  facing  and  craking 

Of  his  great  actes  in  fighting  and  fraymaking  ; 

But  when  Royster  Doyster  is  put  to  his  proofe, 

To  keep  the  Queen's  peace  is  more  for  his  behoofe, 

If  any  woman  smylc  or  cast  on  hym  an  eye. 

Up  is  he  to  the  harde  eares  in  love  by  and  by. 

And  in  all  the  hotte  haste  must  she  be  hys  wife, 

Else  farewell  hys  good  days  and  farewell  his  life.   .   .   . 

But  such  sporte  have  I  with  him  as  I  would  not  leese, 

Though  I  should  be  bound  to  lyve  with  bread  and  cheese.   .   .   . 

I  can  with  a  worde  make  him  fayne  or  loth, 

I  can  with  as  much  make  him  pleased  or  wroth, 

I  can  when  I  will  make  him  mery  and  glad, 

I  can  when  me  lust  make  him  sory  and  sad. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    155 

I  can  set  him  in  hope  and  eke  in  dispaire, 

I  can  make  him  speak  rough  and  make  him  speake  faire.   .   .   . 

I  wyll  seeke  him  out :   But  Ice  he  commeth  thys  way, 

I  have  yond  espied  hym  sadly  comming, 

And  in  love  for  twentie  pounde,  by  hys  glommyng. 

Scene  II  of  the  first  act  now  begins  : 

Rafe  Royster  Doyster  entering  to  Mathew  Merygreeke. 

R.  Royster.      Come    death    when  thou  wilt,  I  am  weary  of  my 
life. 

M.  Mery.      I  tolde  you  I,  we  should  wo  we  another  wife. 

R.  Royster.      Why  did  God  make  me  suche  a  goodly  person? 

M.  Mery.      He  is  in  by  the  weke,  we  shall  have  sport  anon, 

R.  Royster.      And  where   is  my  trustie  friende   Mathew  Mery- 
greeke ? 

M.  Mery.      I  wyll  make  as  I  sawe  him  not,  he  doth  me  seeke. 

R.  Royster.      I  have  hym  espyed  me  thinketh,  yond  is  hee. 
Hough,  Mathew  Merygreeke,  my  friend,  a  worde  with  thee. 

M.  Mery.      I  wyll  not  heare  him,  but  make  as  I  had  haste, 
P'arewell  all  my  good  friends,  the  tyme  away  dothe  waste, 
And  the  tide  they  say  tarieth  for  no  man. 

R.  Royster.     Thou   must    with   thy  good   counsell  helpe  me  if 
thou  can. 

M.  Mery.     God  keepe  thee  worshypfuU  Maister  Royster  Doys- 
ter, 
And  fare  well  the  lustie  Maister  Royster  Doyster. 

R.  Royster.      I  must  needes  speake  with  thee  a  worde  or  twainc. 

M.  Mery.     Within  a  month  or  two  I  will  be  here  againe, 
Negligence  in  greate  affaires  ye  knowe  may  marre  all. 

R.  Royster.     Attende   upon  me  now,  and  well  rewards  thee  I 
shall. 

M.  Mery.     I  have  take  my  leave  and  the  tide  is  well  spent. 

R.  Royster.      I  die  except  thou  helpe,  I  pray  thee  be  content, 
Do  thy  part  well  nowe,  and  aske  what  thou  wilt. 
For  without  thy  aid  my  matter  is  all  spilt. 


156     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

M.  Mery.      Then  to  serve  your  turne  I  will  some  paines  take, 
And  let  all  myne  owne  affaires  alone  for  your  sake. 

And  so  Merygreeke  falls  to  work, 

M.  Mery.      What  is  this  great  matter  I  would  fain  knowe, 
We  shall  fynde  remedie  therefore  I  trowe. 
Do  ye  lacke  money  ?    Ye  knowe  myne  old  offers, 
Ye  have  always  a  key  to  my  purse  and  coffers.  .   .   . 

R.  Royster.      Nay  I  have  money  plentie  all  thinges  to  discharge. 

M.  Mery.     That  knewe  I  ryght  well  when  I  made  offer  so  large. 

And  so  presently,  after  much  talk,  it  comes  out  that  Roy- 
ster Doyster  is  in  love. 

M.  Mery.  Who  is  it  ? 

R.  Royster.  A  woman  yond. 

M.  Mery.  What  is  her  name  ? 
R.  Royster.      Hir  yonder. 

M.  Mery.  Whom. 
R.  Royster.      Mistresse  ah. 

M.  Mery.  ¥y  fy  for  shame, 
Love  ye,  and  know  not  whome  ? 

And  so,  after  more  talk,  the  lover  looks  about  him  and 
cries : 

She  dwelleth  m  this  house. 

M.  Mery.      What,  Christian  Custance  ? 

R.  Royster.      Except  I  have  hir  to  my  wife  I  shall  runne  madde. 

M.  Mery.      Nay  unwise  perhaps,  but  I  warrant  you  for  madde. 

R.  Royster.      I  am  utterly  dead  unlesse  I  have  my  desire. 

M.  Mery.      Where  be  the  bellowes  that  blewe  this  sodeine  fire  ? 

R.  Royster.      I  heare  she  is  worth  a  thousande  pounde  and  more. 

M.  Mery.      Yea,  but  learne  this  one  lesson  of  me  afore. 
An  hundred  pounde  of  Marriage  money  doubtlesse 
Is  ever  thirtie  pound  sterlyng,  or  somewhat  lesse. 
So  that  hir  Thousande  pounde  yf  she  be  thriftie 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   157 

Is  much  neere  about  two  hundred  and  fiftie, 
Howbeit  wowers  and  Widowes  are  never  poore, 

R.  Royster.      Is  she  a  Widowe  ?      I  love  hir  better  therefore. 

M.  Mery.      But  I  heare  she  hath  made  promise  to  another. 

R.  Royster.      He   shall  goe  without  her,  and  he  were   my  bro- 
ther.  .   .   . 

M.  Mery.      Yet  a  fitter  wife  for  your  maship  might  be  founde. 
Such  a  goodly  man  as  you,  etc.  (^Flattery  ad  nauseam.^ 

R.  Royster.      I  am  sorie  God  made  me  so  comely  doubtlesse. 
For  that  maketh  me  eche  where  so  highly  favoured, 
And  all  women  on  me  so  enamoured. 

M.  Mery.      Enamoured  quod  you  ?  have  ye  spied  out  that  ? 
Ah  sir,  mary  nowe  I  see  you  know  what  is  what. 
Enamoured  ka  ?   mary  sir  say  that  againe. 
But  I  thought  not  ye  had  marked  it  so  plaine. 

R.  Royster.     Yes,  eche  where  they  gaze  all  upon  me  and  stare. 

M.  Mery.      Yea  malkyn,  I  warrant  you  as  muche  as  they  dare. 
And  ye  will  not  beleve  what  they  say  in  the  streete, 
When  your  mashyp  passeth  by  all  suche  as  I  meete 
That  sometimes  I  can  scarce  fynde  what  aunswere  to  make. 
Who  is  this  (sayth  one)  sir  Lancelot  du  lake  ? 
Who  is  this,  great  Guy  of  Warwike,  sayth  an  other  ? 
No  (say  I)  it  is  the  thirtenth  Hercules  brother. 
Who  is  this  ?   noble  Hector  of  Troy.,  sayth  the  thirde  ? 
No,  but  of  the  same  nest  (say  I)  it  is  a  birde.   .   .   . 
Who  is  this?   greate  Alexander?   or  Charle  le  Maignef^ 
No,  it  is  the  tenth  Worthie,  say  I  to  them  agayne  :   .   .   . 
To  some  others,  the  thirde  Cato  I  do  you  call. 
And  so  as  well  as  I  can  I  aunswere  them  all. 
Sir  I  pray  you,  what  lorde  or  great  gentleman  is  this  ? 
Maister  Ralph  Royster  Doyster,  dame,  say  I,  ywis. 
O  Lorde  (sayth  she  than)  what  a  goodly  man  it  is, 
Woulde  Christ  I  had  such  a  husbande  as  he  is. 
O  Lorde  (say  some)  that  the  sight  of  his  face  we  lacke : 
It  is  inough  for  you  (say  I)  to  see  his  backe. 

1  Charlemagne. 


158     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

His  face  is  for  ladies  of  high  and  noble  parages. 
With  whom  he  hardly  scapeth  great  mariages. 

In  the  third  scene  Royster  Doyster  comes  upon  Mage 
MuMBLECRUST,  spinning  on  the  distaffe^  Tibet  Talkapace, 
sowyngy  Annot  Alyface,  knittyng ;  and  after  a  lot  of  ser- 
vant-maids' talk,  Royster  Doyster  offers  them  the  com- 
mon salutation  of  the  time  —  a  kiss.  The  old  nurse 
Mumblecrust  takes  hers  without  ado ;  but  when  he  comes 
to  Tib  Talkapace,  she  draws  back  and  chaffs  him  merci- 
lessly, as  by  the  following  specimen  : 

R.  Royster.      I   would   faine   kisse   you  too,  good   maiden,  if  I 

myght  — 
Tib.  Talk.      What  shold  that  neede  ? 
R.  Royster.      But  to  honor  you,  by  this  light. 
I  use  to  kisse  all  them  that  I  love   ...   I  vowe. 

Tib.   Talk.     Yea,  sir  ?      I  pray  you  when  dyd  ye  last  kiss  your 

cowe. 

And  so  finally  Royster  Doyster  gets  the  old  nurse  Mum- 
blecrust alone,  and  begins  to  curry  her  good  offices  with 
her  mistress. 

R.  Royster.  Ah  good  sweet  nourse. 

M.  Mumbl.  A  good  sweete  gentleman. 

R.  Royster.  What  ? 

M.  Munibl.  Nay  I  can  not  tell  sir,  but  what  thing  would  you  ? 

R.  Royster.  Howe  dothe   sweet   Custance,  my  heart   of  gold, 

tell  me  how  ? 

M.  Mumbl.  She  dothe  very  well,  sir,  and   commaunde   me  to 

you.   .   .   . 

R.  Royster.  I  promise  thee  nourse  I   favour  hir. 

M.  Mumbl.  Een  so  sir. 

R.  Royster.  Bid  her  sue  to  me  for  mariage. 

M.  Mumbl.  Een  so  sir. 

R.  Royster.  And  surely  for  thy  sake  she  shall  speede. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   159 

M.  Mumbl.  Een  so  sir. 

R.  Royster.  I  shall  be  contented  to  take  hir, 

M.  Mumbl.  Een  so  sir. 

R.  Royster.  But  at  thy  request  and  for  thy  sake. 

M.  Mumhl.  Een  so  sir. 

R.  Royster.  And  come  hearke  in  thine  eare  what  to  say. 

M.  Mumbl.  Een  so  sir. 

{Here  lette  him  tell  hir  a  great  long  tale  in  hir  eare.) 

In  the  next  scene  Royster  Doyster  and  Merygreeke 
ply  the  old  nurse  to  bear  a  letter  to  the  beloved  Custance  : 
Merygreeke  standing  by  and  stuffing  the  old  lady  with 
the  most  marvellous  tales  of  Royster  Doyster's  powers 
and  strength  —  how  that  Royster  was  a  great  hunter, 

Yea  and  the  last  Elephant  that  ever  he  sawe 
As  the  beast  passed  by,  he  start  out  of  a  buske. 
And  e'en  with  pure  strength  of  armes  pluckt  out 
his  great  tuske :   .   .  . 

Why  he  wrong  a  club 
Once  in  a  fray  out  of  the  hande  of  Belzebub. 

Whereupon  the  old  nurse  declares  that  he  is  "  a  sore  man 
by  zembletee,"  and  takes  the  letter. 

Dame  Custance  scolds  them  all  soundly  for  bringing 
her  a  letter  from  any  man,  and  here  follow  several  scenes 
of  by-play  among  the  servants,  all  of  them  resolving  to  be 
revenged  upon  Royster  Doyster  for  bringing  them  into 
disfavour  with  their  mistress.  Meantime  she  declines  even 
to  read  the  letter  at  first,  and  tosses  it  aside.  Merygreeke 
comes  and  offers  the  hand  of  Royster  Doyster  in  mar- 
riage, but  she  refuses  with  all  contempt.  She  now  reads 
the  letter,  and  her  disdain  is  wrought  to  the  highest  pitch. 
It  seems  that  Royster  Doyster  had  employed  a  scrivener 
to  compose  the  letter  for  him,  but  had  copied  it  off  him- 
self, and,  in  copying,  had  so  changed  the  punctuation  as 


i6o     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

to  convert  the  sentiments  from  those  of  a  love-letter  Into 
a  tirade  of  abuse.  How  this  is  done  comes  out  in  the 
third  act.  Custance,  in  the  fourth  scene,  finds  Mery- 
greeke  and  Royster  Doyster  dawdHng  before  her  house. 

C.  Custance.     What  gaudyng  and  foolyng  is  this  afore  my  doore  ? 

M.  Mery.      May  not  folks  be  honest,  pray  you,  though  they  be 
pore  ? 

C.  Custance.      As  that  thing  may  be  true,  so  rich  folks  may  be 
fooles. 

R.  Royster.      Hir    talke    is   as    fine    as    she    had    learned    it   in 
schooles. 
.   .   .   sweete  heart  .   .   .   accept  my  service. 

C.  Custance.      I  will  not  be  served  with  a  foole  in  no  wise. 
When  I  choose  an  husbande  I  hope  to  take  a  man.   .   .   . 

M.  Mery.      Ye  know  not  where  your  preferment  lieth,  I  see. 
He  sending  you  such  a  token,  ring  and  letter. 

C.  Custance.      Mary,  here  it  is,  ye  never  saw  a  better. 

M.  Mery.      Let  us  see  your  letter. 

C.  Custance.      Holde,  reade  it  if  ye  can. 
And  see  what  letter  it  is  to  winne  a  woman. 

M.  Mery.       To    mine   owne    deare  coney  hirde^   swete    hearty  and 
pigsny 
Good  Mistress  Custance  present  these  by  and  by  : 
Of  this  superscription  do  you  blame  the  stile  ? 

C.  Custance.     With  the  rest  as  good  stuffe  as  ye  redde  a  great 
while. 

M.  Mery.      Sweete   mistresse    where    as    I    love  you    nothing 
at  all. 
Regarding  your  substance  and  richesse  chiefe  of  all, 
For  your  personage,  beautie,  demeanour  and  wit, 
I  commende  me  unto  you  never  a  whit. 
Sorie  to  heare  report  of  your  good  welfare.   .   .  . 
And  nowe  by  these  presentes  I  do  you  advertise 
That  I  minded  to  marrie  you  in  no  wise. 
For  your  goodes  and  substance  I  coulde  bee  content 
To  take  you  as  ye  are.      If  ye  mynde  to  bee  my  wyfe, 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    i6i 

Ye  shall  be  assured  for  the  tyme  of  my  lyfe 

I  will  keepe  ye  ryght  well  from  good  rayment  and  fare, 

Ye  shall  not  be  kepte  but  in  sorow  and  care  — 

Ye  shall  in  no  wyse  lyve  at  your  own  libertie, 

Doe  and  say  what  ye  lust,  ye  shall  never  please  me. 

But  when  ye  are  mery,  I  wil  be  all  sadde. 

When  ye  are  sory,  I  will  be  very  gladde. 

When  ye  seeke  your  hearte's  ease,  I  will  be  unkinde. 

At  no  tyme  in  me  shall  ye  muche  gentlenesse  finde.   ,   .   . 

Thus  good  mistresse  Custance,  the  lorde  you  save  and  kepe. 

From  me  Royster  Doyster,  whether  I  wake  or  slepe. 

Whereupon  Custance  cries  in  triumph  : 

Howe  by  this  letter  of  love  ?   is  it  not  fine  ? 

R.  Royster.      By  the  armes  of  Caleys,  it  is  none  of  mine. 

Af.  Mery.     Fie,  you  are  fowie  to  blame,  this  is  your  owne  hand. 

C.  Custance.      Might  not  a  woman  be  proud  of  such  an  hus- 

bande  ? 
M.  Mery.     Ah  that  ye  would  in  a  letter  shew  such  despite. 
R.  Royster.      Oh   I   would   I   had  hym  here,  the  which  did  it 

endite. 

In  the  next  scene  he  has  brought  before  him  the  Scrivener 
"  the  which  did  it  endite,"  and  hotly  rebukes  him  : 

R.  Royster.     All  the  stocke  thou  comest  of  later  or  rather 
From  thy  fyrst  father's  grandfather's  father's  father. 
Nor  all  that  shall  come  of  thee  to  the  worldes  ende, 
Though  to  three  score  generations  they  descende, 
Can  be  able  to  make  me  a  just  recompense. 
For  this  trespasse  of  thine  and  this  one  offense. 

The  Scrivener  is  greatly  astonished  and  will  know  what 
is  the  matter. 

R.  Royster.      I  say  the  letter  thou  madest  me  was  not  good. 

Scrivener.     Then  did  ye  wrong  copy  it  of  likelihood. 

R.  Royster.     Yes,  out  of  the  copy  worde  for  worde  I  wrote. 


i62    SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

The  Scrivener  now  conjectures  that  "  in  reading  and  point- 
yng  there  was  made  some  faulte,"  and  to  prove  it  pro- 
duces the  original ;  adding  to  Royster  Doyster's  embarrass- 
ment thereby,  for  that  gentleman  had  bragged  very  loudly 
'at  sending  the  letter  that  it  was  written  by  himself. 
"  Howe  saye  you,"  says  the  Scrivener,  "  is  this  mine 
originall  or  no  ?" 

R.  Royster.     The   selfe  same   that   I   wrote  out  of,  so  mote   I 

go- 
Scrivener.      Looke  you  on  your  owne  fist,  and  I  will  looke  on 

this, 
And  let  this  man  be  judge  whether  I  read  amisse. 

Upon  the  Scrivener's  reading,  the  letter  sounds  beautiful 
and  very  tender,  the  trick  being  in  the  punctuation,  as 
you  will  easily  perceive  from  a  little  study  of  the  text  and 
breaking  up  of  the  lines.  But  Royster  returns  to  the 
pursuit.  In  the  fourth  act  we  find  him  standing  by  while 
his  factotum  pleads  for  him. 

"Will  ye  take  him  ?  "  says  Merygreeke. 

"  I  defie  him,"  says  Custance.  "  Waste  no  more  wynde, 
for  it  will  never  bee." 

But  Merygreeke  will  waste  "  wynde." 

Gentle     mistresse     Custance     now     [says    he],     good    mistresse 

Custance, 
Honey  mistresse  Custance  now,  sweete  mistresse  Custance, 
Golden  mistresse  Custance  now,  white  mistresse  Custance, 
Silken  mistresse  Custance  now,  faire  mistresse  Custance. 

C.  Custance.      Faith    rather   than   to   mary   with   such  a  doltish 

loute, 
I  woulde  match  mvselfe  with  a  begger  out  of  doute. 

AI.  Mery.     Then  I  can  say  no  more,  to  speede  we  are  not  like. 
Except  ye  rappe  out  a  ragge  of  your  Rhetorike. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    163 

But  Royster  Doyster,  failing  in  grace,  resolves  to  try 
terror,  and,  egged  on  by  the  treacherous  Merygreeke,  who 
arranges  the  whole  business  for  a  huge  joke,  he  threatens 
Mistress  Custance  that  he  will  come  with  his  whole  follow- 
ing and  tear  and  burn  and  destroy  her  household  utterly. 
In  the  seventh  scene  of  the  fourth  act  we  find  him  in  a 
ridiculous  armour,  with  drums  and  colours,  actually  march- 
ing upon  the  doomed  house  with  his  followers.  In  the 
next  scene  the  valiant  Dame  Custance  sets  her  maidens  in 
array  to  withstand  him.  No  better  fun  for  Tib  Talkapace 
and  Annot  Alyface  and  the  rest  of  them ;  they  fall  upon 
Royster  Doyster  with  brooms  and  household  utensils, 
and  the  comedy  becomes  a  pure  farce.  Tib  accomplishes 
a  brilliant  military  manoeuvre  by  bringing  up  a  terrible  war- 
like goose  and  letting  it  fly  at  the  enemy  ;  Dame  Custance 
herself,  who  had  at  first  fled  by  a  previous  arrangement 
with  Merygreeke,  now  returns  and  undertakes  the  redoubt- 
able Captain  Royster  Doyster  in  single  combat.  Mery- 
greeke flies  to  the  rescue  of  his  master,  and,  pretending  to 
defend  him  from  the  ferocious  lady  Custance,  manages 
ingeniously  to  miss  her  every  time  and  to  whack  poor  Roy- 
ster Doyster,  insomuch  that  the  latter  receives  a  fearful 
drubbing,  until  finally  Royster  Doyster  is  utterly  put  to 
rout  and  runs  ofi\,  pursued  by  the  derision  of  the  women. 
In  the  fifth  act  Gawyn  Goodlucke,  the  betrothed  of 
Dame  Custance,  appears  on  the  scene,  coming,  it  seems, 
from  sea,  after  an  absence.  There  is  at  first  some  obstruc- 
tive plot.  His  man  Sym  Suresby  had  come  on  ahead  to 
Dame  Custance's  house,  and,  having  arrived  there  at  a 
moment  when  Merygreeke  had  been  talking  of  the  ring 
and  letter  which  Royster  Doyster  had  sent,  had  posted 
back  to  his  master  with  talk  that  Dame  Custance  was 
treating  with  another  lover.  But  Gawyn  Goodlucke 
comes  to  find  out  for  himself.      He  meets  Tristram  Trusty, 


i64     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

an  old  friend  of  his  and  of  his  betrothed,  who  vouches 
for  her  constancy  to  Goodlucke  and  her  contempt  for 
Royster  Doyster ;  so  that  finally,  in  the  plenitude  of  his 
happiness,  Gawyn  Goodlucke  brings  all  together.  Royster 
Doyster  is  brought  up  and  appeased,  they  all  chaff  him  to 
their  heart's  content,  and  so  the  play  ends  with  a  merry 
song  and  a  rimed  prayer  for  the  Queen. 

At  the  end  of  the  published  play  is  given  The  Psalmo- 
die^  which  Merygreeke  chants  derisively  when  Royster 
Doyster  says  he  must  die  for  the  love  of  Custance  : 

Placebo  d'llexi.      Maister  Royster  Doyster  wil  streight  go  home 
and  die, 
Oure  Lorde  Jesus  Christ  his  soule  have  mercy  upon  ; 
Thus  you  see  today  a  man,  to  morrow  John. 
Yet  saving  for  a  woman's  extreeme  crueltie. 
He  might  have  lyved  yet  a  moneth  or  two  or  three, 
But  in  spite  of  Custance  which  hath  him  weried. 
His  mashyp  shall  be  worshipfully  buried. 
And  while  some  piece  of  his  soule  is  yet  hym  within, 
Some  parte  of  his  funeralls  let  us  here  beginne. 

Dirige.      He  will  go  darklyng  to  his  grave. 
Neque  lux^  neque  crux^  nisi  solum  clinke 
Never  gentman  so  went  toward  heaven  I  thinke.   .   .   . 
Good  night  Roger  olde  knave,  Farewel  Roger  olde  Knave. 
Good  night  Roger  olde  Knave,  knave,  knap. 

Nequando.      Audivi  vocem^  Requiem  csternam. 

The  Peale  of  belles  rong  by  the  parish  Clerk 
And  Royster  Doyster  s  four e  tnen. 

The  first  Bell  a  Triple^ 

When  dyed  he  ?      When  dyed  he  ? 

The  Seconde^ 

We  have  hym.  We  have  hym. 

The  thirde^ 

Royster  Doyster,  Royster  Doyster. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME   165 

The  fourth  Bell, 

He  commeth,  He  commeth. 

The  greate  Bell, 

Our  owne,  Our  owne. 


When  the  play  ended,  Shakspere  moved  out  as  well  as 
he   could    through    the    struggling    throng.     Just    as    he 
gained  the  street,  he  observed  that  the  handsome  young 
cavalier  who  had  shared  his  box  was  apparently  in  haste  to 
get  ahead  of  him.     At  the  same  moment  Shakspere  noticed 
that  the  stranger,  while  quite  elegantly  appointed,  wore  his 
sword  awry  and  seemed  to  manage  it  awkwardly  as  if  un- 
accustomed to  bear  arms.      In  the  next  moment  stronger 
proof  of  this  fact  appeared  ;  for  as  the  small  cavaher  quick- 
ened his  pace  forward  his  sword  dangled  between  his  legs 
and  tripped  him  so  that  he  fell  flat  on  the  ground.     As 
Shakspere  ran  forward  and  lifted  the  prostrate  young  gal- 
lant from  the  earth,  the  latter,  as  if  to  thank  him,  turned 
upon  him  a  charming  face  which  was  now  itself  a  very 
pretty  comedy  of  blushes  and  smiles  ;  and  in  the  same 
instant  Shakspere  recognised  that  the  stranger  was  no  other 
than  Anne  Hathaway  disguised  in  male  costume.      For  the 
moment  he  was  quite  stupefied  with  astonishment,  while 
Anne  Hathaway's  eyes  shone  and  sparkled  with  unbounded 
merriment  at  his  serious  face.     As  they  walked  back  to  the 
Bell  Savage  Inn  —  for  Anne  Hathaway  also  lodged  there  — 
Shakspere  recovered  himself,  and  presently  the  whole  deli- 
cious romance  of  the  adventure  took  possession  of  him, 
and   he   entered  into  it  with   the  maddest  abandonment. 
What   could  be  more  delightful  ?     Two  young  lovers  on 
their  first  visit  to  London,  one  a  poet  with  all  the  world  in 
his  soul,  the  other  an  adoring,  spirited,  adventurous  girl. 
It  seems  that  Anne  Hathaway,  when  a  child,  had  a  great 
passion  for  climbing  trees,  as  I  have  known  more  modern 


i66     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

girls  sometimes  to  have ;  and  her  mother,  like  a  wise 
farmer's  wife,  had  indulged  her  in  a  costume  suitable  for 
this  purpose,  and  had  allowed  her  often  to  roam  about  the 
woods  dressed  in  her  brother's  clothes.  Thus  she  had  in 
early  life  acquired  that  familiarity  with  her  present  costume 
of  which  she  had  now  availed  herself  to  accompany  Shak- 
spere  to  London. 

Perhaps  this  adventure,  or  some  one  like  it,  is  the 
original  of  all  those  employments  of  this  device  which 
Shakspere  so  often  makes.  In  As  Tou  Like  It^  you  all 
remember,  Rosalind  dresses  herself  in  boy's  clothes  and 
finds  her  lover  in  the  Forest  of  Arden  ;  In  Air s  Well 
'That  Ends  Welly  the  sweet,  womanly  Helena  dresses  herself 
In  boy's  clothes  and  follows  her  lover  like  a  protecting 
angel  to  France  ;  in  Cymbeline,  Imogen  dresses  herself  In 
boy's  clothes  and  fares  off  towards  her  Leonatus ;  in  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona^  Julia  arrays  herself  in  boy's 
clothes  and  seeks  her  absent  Proteus  ;  while  In  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice^  Portia  pranks  it  as  a  doctor  of  laws, 
Nerlssa  as  a  lawyer's  clerk,  and  Jessica  as  a  boy. 

And  so,  after  a  week  of  glory  in  London  Sunday  came 
round  again,  and  Shakspere  and  Anne  Hathaway  went 
again  to  the  theatre.  This  time  the  play  was  a  tragedy ; 
let  us  say  that  it  was  Gorboduc^  the  first  English  tragedy. 

GorboduCy  or  Ferrex  and  Porrex^  was  written  by  Thomas 
Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst,  in  collaboration  with  Thomas 
Norton.  Modern  criticism  has  assigned  to  the  latter,  how- 
ever, the  smaller  part  of  the  work.  Sackville,  to  whom 
criticism  has  assigned  the  best  share  In  the  work,  was  a 
great  and  strong  soul  and  a  true  poet,  by  his  famous  Induc- 
tion to  The  Mirrour  for  Magistrates ;  and  his  portions  of 
the  play  of  Gorboduc  are  not  difficult  to  discriminate  by 
one  who  Is  familiar  with  the  musical  terms  and  huge  ima- 
ginations of  the  Induction. 


^^^^^^ 


■iffft  r^>-.r-.  t^^  fftj  f  1^  fff.  i«»-I^Ti^T?i^Vir«ftirW  n^i^i^ii-nr  TftllWlTf 


niouias  S,K'k\'ilic  Earl  ofDorfet. 

J^/y/rn  (He  Orr^jfinal  at  KiictvIi". 


g/^^g7-3^'^  ^ 


John  Thano 


Sackville 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    167 

Gorboduc  was  first  acted  in  1562.  You  will  observe,  as 
I  go  on  to  read  the  substance  of  it,  that  it  is  a  vast  and 
soHd  mass  of  good  thought  and  correct  language.  Sack- 
ville  was  indeed  endeavouring  to  impose  the  Hmitations  of 
the  Greek  tragedy  upon  EngHsh  dramatic  endeavour : 
Gorboduc  was  a  professed  attempt  to  revive  the  methods  of 
the  classic  drama  ;  it  had  its  chorus,  its  unities,  and  a  stern 
severity  of  treatment.  It  belongs  to  a  period,  you 
remember,  when  the  union  of  tragic  and  comic  elements  in 
the  same  play  would  have  been  looked  upon  as  worse  than 
folly  by  the  greatest  critics  —  a  period  when  we  find  even 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  condemning  in  the  strongest  terms  such 
a  blasphemous  perversion  of  all  the  spiritual  unities  as  the 
introduction  of  wit  into  a  tragedy. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  was,  in  fact,  very  fond  of  this  very 
play.  "  Gorboduc^''  he  says  in  his  Defense  of  Poesie^  "  is  full 
of  stately  speeches  and  well-sounding  phrases,  climbing  to 
the  height  of  Seneca  his  style,  and  as  full  of  notable  mo- 
rality ;  which  it  doth  most  delightfully  teach,  and  thereby 
obtain  the  very  end  of  poetry." 

The  argument  of  the  tragedy,  as  given  in  the  quaint 
and  strong  English  of  the  old  edition,  is  this  (and  if  you 
have  ever  meditated  upon  the  subtle  indications  which  are 
revealed  in  the  very  choice  of  subjects  you  will  be  able  to 
formulate  a  certain  moral  status  from  the  very  plot  as  given 
here  ;  I  must  ask  you  to  observe  also,  by  the  way,  the  won- 
derfully brief,  pithy,  and  effective  sentences  which,  I  think, 
make  this  argument  a  most  notable  piece  of  sixteenth-cen- 
tury prose) :  "  Gorboduc,  king  of  Brittanie,  divided  his 
realme  in  his  lifetime  to  his  sonnes,  Ferrex  and  Porrex.  The 
sonnes  fell  to  discention.  The  younger  killed  the  elder. 
The  mother  that  more  dearely  loved  the  elder,  for  revenge 
killed  the  younger.  The  people  moved  with  the  crueltie 
of  the   fact,  rose   in   rebellion  and  slew   both  father    and 


i68     SHAKSPERE  AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

mother.  The  Nobilitie  assembled,  and  most  terribly 
destroyed  the  Rebels,  and  afterwards  for  want  of  issue 
of  the  Prince,  whereby  the  succession  of  the  Crown 
became  uncertain,  they  fell  to  civil  Warre,  in  which  both 
they  and  many  of  their  issues  were  slain,  and  the  land  for 
a  long  time  almost  desolate  and  miserably  wasted." 

The  edition  of  1571  has  a  naive  address  of  the  printer 
to  the  reader  which  gives  us  a  lively  idea  of  the  manner  in 
which  plays  were  often  stolen  from  their  owners,  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  theatres  (either  by  reporters  who  copied 
them  ofF  imperfectly  during  the  representation  and  then 
filled  up  the  gaps  out  of  their  own  stupid  heads  afterwards, 
or  in  other  ways),  and  sold  to  publishers,  who  thus  gave  to 
the  world  such  corrupt  editions  as  those  which  have  since 
given  us  so  much  trouble  in  restoring  the  true  text  of 
Shakspere. 

"  THE    p.     [printer]     to    THE    READER. 

"  Where  [as]  this  Tragedie  was  for  furniture  of  part  of 
the  grand  Christmasse  in  the  Inner-Temple,  first  written 
about  nine  yeares  agoe  by  the  right  honourable  Thomas, 
now  Lorde  Buckherst,  and  by  T.  Norton,  and  after  shewed 
before  her  majestie  and  never  intended  by  the  Authors 
thereof  to  be  published  :  yet  one  W.  G.  getting  a  copy 
thereof  at  some  young  man's  hand  that  lacked  a  little 
money,  and  much  discretion  in  the  last  great  plage  in  1565, 
about  5  yeares  past,  while  the  said  lord  was  out  of  Eng- 
land, and  T.  Norton  farre  out  of  London,  and  neither  of 
them  both  made  privie,  put  it  forth  exceedingly  corrupted." 

(Before  each  act  of  the  play,  what  was  called  the  Domme 
Shew^  came  forth  and  expressed  by  some  allegorical  pan- 
tomime the  substance  of  the  act  which  was  to  follow.) 

"  Order  of  the  Domme  Shew  before  the  first  Act  and 
the  Signification  thereof: 

1  Dumb-show. 


m  The  troiiblefome 

W^jjc  and  lamentable  death  of 

^if Inward  tlicfecond,  King  of 
Jf     6vgUnd:  -with  the  traoicaU 

tall  of  prcud  Mortimer: 

And  alfo  the  life  and  death  oiVsirs  Gau€flon\ 
the  great  Sarle  of  Corncwall;,  and  mighty 

fauoiitc  of  king  Edirard  the  fccond,  as  it  was 
fu(flic]tielyad:cd  by  the  right  honor  able   . 
the  Earle  of  Pembrooke  his 
fernantes^ 

Written  by  Chri.  Marlow  Centm 


limprmtedat  London  by  V^\chzri  Bradocic^ 

'A  f^ Wf/^Mw /owjdwclljnsj-nccre HoB>burnc conduit^ ^ 
:  ySt  thcftgne  oftbiCHnHf,  1558. 


A  Tragedy  of  the  Period  :   Marlowe's  "  Edward  II." 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    169 

'■'■Firsts  the  musicke  of  violenze  began  to  play,  during 
which  came  in  upon  the  stage  sixe  wild  men  clothed  in 
leaves.  Of  whom  the  first  bare  on  his  neck  a  fagot  of 
small  stickes,  which  they  all  both  severallye  and  together 
assayed  with  all  their  strengthes  to  breake,  but  it  could  not 
be  broken  by  them.  At  the  length  one  of  them  plucked 
out  one  of  the  sticks,  and  broke  it :  and  the  rest  plucking 
out  all  the  other  stickes  one  after  another,  did  easely  breake 
the  same  being  severed,  which  being  enjoyned,  they  had 
before  attempted  in  vaine.  After  they  had  this  done,  they 
departed  the  stage  and  the  musick  ceased.  Hereby  was 
signified  that  a  state  knit  in  unitie  doth  continue  strong 
against  all  force,  but  being  divided,  is  easily  destroyed ;  as 
befel  upon  duke  Gorboduc  dividing  his  lande  to  his  two 
sonnes,  which  he  before  held  in  monarchic,  and  upon  the 
discention  of  the  brethren  to  whom  it  was  divided." 


NAMES    OF    THE    SPEAKERS: 

Gorboduc,  King  of  Great  Britain. 
Vide N A,  ^ueene  and  wife  to  King  Gorboduc. 
Ferrex,  elder  sonne  to  King  Gorboduc. 
PoRREX,  younger  sonne  to  King  Gorboduc. 
Cloyton,  duke  of  Cornewall. 
Fergus,  duke  of  Albany e. 
Mandud,  duke  of  Lacgris. 
GwENARD,  duke  of  Cumberland. 
EuBULUS,  secretarie  to  the  king. 
Arostus,  a  counsellor  to  the  kitig. 

DoRDAN,  a  counsellor  assigned  by  the  king  to  his  eldest  son^  Ferrex. 
Philander,  a  counsellor  assigned  by  the  king  to  his  youngest  son, 
Porrex. 

(Both  being  of  the  olde  kinges  counsel  before^ 
Hermon,  a  parasite  remaining  with  Ferrex. 
Tyndar,  a  parasite  remaining  with  Porrex. 


lyo     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

NuNTlus,  a  messenger  of  the  eldest  brother's  death. 
NuNTlus,  a  messenger  of  duke  Ferrex  rising  in  arms. 
Marcella,  a  lady  of  the  queenes  privie-chamber. 
CnoRVS^foure  auncient  and  sage  men  of  Brittaine. 

"Actus  Primus,  Scena  Prima"  opens  with  these  musical 
lines  from  Videna,  Qvieen  to  King  Gorboduc  : 

Videna.     The  silent  night  that  bringes  the  quiet  pawse, 
From  painefuU  travailes  of  the  wearie  day, 
Prolonges  my  carefull  thoughtes,  and  makes  me  blame 
The  slowe  Aurora,  that  so  for  love  or  shame 
Doth  long  delay  to  shewe  her  blushing  face ; 
And  now  the  day  renewes  my  griefull  plaint. 

She  goes  on  to  complain  that  the  king  her  husband  intends 
to  give  half  the  kingdom  to  the  younger  son,  Porrex,  in- 
stead of  giving  it  all  to  the  elder,  Ferrex,  according  to  cus- 
tom ;  and  she  prophesies  harm  from  it :  "  Murders, 
mischief,  or  civill  sword  at  length.  Or  mutual  treason  or  a 
just  revenge." 

In  Scene  II,  Gorboduc,  with  his  counsellors  Arostus, 
Philander,  and  Eubulus,  appears.  Observe  the  weight  and 
sweet  dignity  and  courteousness  of  the  speeches.  Shak- 
spere  unquestionably  drew  liberal  sustenance  from  this 
source.  Everywhere  you  see  reproductions  of  the  grave 
politeness  and  musical  cadence  of  these  stately  speeches 
upon  high  matters. 

Gorboduc.      My  Lords,  whose  grave  advise  and  faithfull  aide 
Have  long  upheld  my  honour  and  my  realme. 
And  brought  me  to  this  age  from  tender  yeres 
Guidyng  so  great  estate  with  great  renowne  ; 
Nowe  more  importeth  me  than  erst  to  use 
Your  faith  and  wisdom  whereby  yet  I  reigne ; 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    171 

That  when  by  death  my  life  and  rule  shall  cease, 
The  kingdom  yet  may  with  unbroken  course 
Have  certayne  prince,  by  whose  undoubted  right 
Your  wealth  and  peace  may  stand  in  quiet  stay : 
And  eke  that  they  whom  nature  hath  preparde 
In  time  to  take  my  place  in  princely  state, 
While  in  their  father's  tyme  their  pliant  youth 
Yeldes  to  the  frame  of  skilfull  governaunce, 
Maye  so  be  taught,  and  trayned  in  noble  artes, 
As  what  their  fathers  which  have  reigned  before 
Have  with  great  fame  devined  down  to  them 
With  honour  they  may  leave  unto  their  seede.   .   ,   . 

In  Arostus's  reply,  note  by  the  way  the  rhythmic  ten- 
dency to  group  terms  by  threes,  particularly  at  the  end  of 
a  stately  line,  as  in 

To  me,  and  myne,  and  to  your  native  land. 


or 


Whose  honours,  goods,  and  lyves  are  whole  avowed. 
To  serve,  to  ayde,  and  to  defende  your  grace. 


or 


For  kings,  for  kingdoms,  and  for  common  weales  ; 

and  compare,  in  the  opening  of  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  Theseus's 

With  mirth,  with  triumph  and  with  revelry. 

These  three  groups  are  a  sort  of  sporadic  rhythm 
agreeably  varying  the  monotony  of  regular  rhythms  in 
poetry.  You  will  all  remember  how  they  were  quite 
characteristic  of  English  prose  not  many  years  ago,  when 
they   became,  not  sporadic,  but  regular  rhythms.      It  is, 


172    SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

indeed,  a  habit  of  composition  which  is  apt  to  grow  to 
extremes  if  not  watched.  A  pleasant  story  is  told  of  a 
most  worthy  clergyman  who  had  fallen  into  the  trichoto- 
mous  style,  and  who  was  betrayed  by  its  necessities  once, 
in  offering  an  extemporaneous  prayer,  as  follows :  "  O 
Lord,  make  all  the  /^tractable  tractable,  all  the  /«temper- 
ate  temperate,  and  all  the  />/dustrious  dustrious." 

Arostus  goes  on  to  respond  to  the  King  that  his  ad- 
visers shall  not 

neede  in  boasting  wise  to  shewe 
Our  trueth  to  you,  nor  yet  our  wakefull  care 
For  you,  for  yours,  and  for  our  native  lande.   .   .   . 
Doubt  not  to  use  our  counsells  and  our  aides 
Whose  honours,  goods  and  lyves  are  whole  avowed, 
To  serve,  to  ayde,  and  to  defende  your  grace. 

Gorboduc.      My  lordes,  I  thanke  you  all.      This  is  the  case. 
Ye  know,  the  Gods,  who  have  the  soveraigne  care 
For  kings,  for  kingdoms,  and  for  common  weales, 
Gave  me  two  sonnes  in  my  more  lusty  age. 
Who  nowe  in  my  decaying  yeres  are  growen 
Well  towardes  ryper  state  of  minde  and  strength 
To  take  in  hande  some  greater  princely  charge.   .   .   . 
When  fatall  death  shall  end  my  mortall  life 
My  purpose  is  to  leave  unto  them  twaine 
The  realme  divided  in  two  sondry  partes : 
The  one,  Ferrex,  myne  elder  sonne  shall  have, 
The  other,  shall  the  younger  Porrex  rule. 

They  advise,  some  for,  some  against.  But  the  old  King 
Gorboduc  has  made  up  his  mind  ;  he  proceeds  to  divide 
the  kingdom,  and  the  two  young  kings  depart  to  assume 
their  realms.  Act  1 1  opens  at  the  court  of  Ferrex, 
with  a  scene  between  him,  Hermon  the  parasite,  and 
Dordan  the  old  counsellor,  in  which  the  parasite  succeeds 
in    so    far   poisoning    Ferrex's  mind   against  his   younger 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    173 

brother  as  to  persuade  him  to  raise  an  army  in  order  to 
protect  himself  against  possible  invasion.  The  next  scene 
of  the  act  is  at  the  court  of  the  younger  brother,  who  has 
heard  of  his  elder  brother's  raising  an  army,  and  immedi- 
ately resolves  not  only  to  do  the  same  but  to  push  forward 
and  be  beforehand  in  invading  Ferrex.  We  now  come  to 
Act  III.  It  opens  with  Gorboduc,  surrounded  by  his 
counsellors,  to  whom  Nuntius  the  messenger  has  just 
brought  the  wretched  tidings  of  the  war  between  the 
brothers.  Gorboduc  is  stricken  to  the  soul  with  a  sudden 
vision  of  the  terrible  mistake  he  has  made,  and  cries  : 

O  cruell  fates,  O  mindful  wrath  of  goddes 
Whose  vengeance  neither  Simois  stayned  streames 
Flowing  with  bloud  of  Trojan  princes  slaine, 
Nor  Phrygian  fieldes  made  ranck  with  corpses  dead 
Of  Asian  kings  and  lordes,  can  yet  appease, 
Ne  slaughter  of  unhappie  Priam's  race, 
Nor  Ilion's  face  made  levell  with  the  soile 
Can  yet  suffice  ;  but  still  continued  rage 
Pursues  our  lyves  and  from  the  farthest  seas 
Doth  chase  the  issues  of  destroied  Troye, 
Oh,  no  man  happie  till  his  ende  be  seene. 

Hereupon  follow  disastrous  tidings  in  quick  succession, 
culminating  in  the  arrival  of  Nuntius  with  news  that  Porrex 
has  slain  his  elder  brother  and  usurped  his  realm,  the 
scene  ending  with  a  majestic  and  mournful  chant  from  the 
chorus  which  begins : 

The  lust  of  kingdome  knowes  no  sacred  faith, 
No  rule  of  reason,  no  regarde  of  right, 
No  kindely  love,  no  feare  of  heaven's  wrath. 
But  with  contempt  of  goddes,  and  man's  despite. 
Through  blodie  slaughter  doth  prepare  the  waies 
To  fatall  scepter  and  accursed  reigne. 


174     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Act  IV  now  opens.  Qiieen  Videna  is  discovered  alone. 
After  a  considerable  soliloquy  she  resolves  to  avenge  her 
favourite  son's  death  by  slaying  her  other  son,  his  mur- 
derer. Scene  II  now  comes  on,  and  shows  us  Porrex 
standing  repentant  before  his  father  and  the  counsellors, 
receiving  the  weight  of  the  King's  wrath  for  his  conduct. 
Presently, —  and  here  we  have  a  quaint  illustration  of  the 
contempt  of  the  old  play  for  the  unities, —  without  any 
notification  that  Porrex  has  even  gone  out,  and  with  the 
intervention  of  only  one  or  two  short  speeches  of  the 
counsellors  since  Porrex  himself  was  speaking,  in  rushes 
Marcella,  a  lady  of  the  Queen's,  and  horrifies  them  with 
the  news  that  Porrex  has  been  stabbed  in  his  sleep  by  the 
Queen  herself.  After  their  first  exclamations  of  horror, 
she  proceeds  to  relate  his  death  in  a  very  dramatic  and 
beautiful  speech.  Here  is  the  only  touch  of  love  in  the 
whole  play  : 

Marcella.      But  heare  hys  ruthful  end. 
The  noble  prince,  pearst  with  the  sodeine  wound, 
Out  of  his  wretched  slumber  hastely  start,   .   .   . 
When  in  the  fall  his  eyes,  even  now  unclosed, 
Behelde  the  queene,  and  cryed  to  her  for  helpe  ; 
We,  then,  alas,  the  ladies  which  that  time 
Did  there  attend, 

.   .   .   hearing  him  oft  call  the  wretched  name 
Of  mother,  and  to  crye  to  her  for  aide. 
Whose  direfull  hand  gave  him  the  mortall  wound, 
Pitying,  alas,  (for  nought  else  could  we  do) 
His  ruthefull  ende,  ranne  to  the  wofull  bedde, 
Dispoyled  straight  his  brest,  and  all  we  might 
Wiped  in  vaine  with  napkins  next  at  hand 
The  sodeine  streames  of  bloud  that  flushed  fast 
Out  of  the  gaping  wound  :   O  what  a  looke, 
O  what  a  ruthefull  stedfast  eye  me  thought 
He  fixt  upon  my  face,  which  to  my  death 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    175 

Will  never  part  from  me,  when  with  a  braide 
A  deepe  fet  sigh  he  gave,  and  therewithal, 
Clasping  his  handes,  to  heaven  he  cast  his  sight. 
And  straight  pale  death  pressing  within  his  face, 
The  flying  ghost  his  mortall  corpes  forsook. 

After  this  relation  of  the  manner  of  the  young  prince's 
frightful  death,  Marcella,  who  appears  —  though  by  this 
sole  indication  —  to  have  loved  the  dead  prince,  falls  into 
a  beautiful  lament,  which  makes  me  think  of  Othello's 
farewell  to  the  instruments  of  war : 

O  queen  of  adamant,  O  marble  brest. 

If  not  the  favour  of  his  comely  face. 

If  not  his  princely  chere  and  countenance, 

His  valiant  active  armes,  his  manly  brest. 

If  not  his  faire  and  seemely  personage. 

His  noble  limmes  in  such  proportion  cast 

As  would  have  wrapt  a  sillie  woman's  thought ; 

If  this  mought  not  have  moved  thy  bloodie  hart.   .   .   . 

Should  nature  yet  consent  to  slay  her  sonne  ?   .   .   . 

Ah,  noble  prince,  how  oft  have  I  behelde 

Thee  mounted  on  thy  fierce  and  trampling  stede, 

Shining  in  armour  bright  before  the  tilt. 

And  with  thy  mistresse  sieve  tied  on  thy  helme. 

Charge  thy  staffe,  to  please  thy  ladies  eye, 

That  bowed  the  head-peece  of  thy  frendly  foe  ! 

How  oft  in  armes  on  horse  to  bend  the  mace. 

How  oft  in  armes  on  foot  to  breaice  the  sworde. 

Which  never  now  these  eyes  may  see  againe  ! 

And  in  the  fifth  act  we  find  all  the  direful  facts  come  to 
pass  which  were  briefly  rehearsed  in  the  argument.  The 
people,  enraged  at  the  cruelties  which  go  on  in  the  court, 
rise  and  slay  the  King  and  the  Queen  ;  whereupon  the  four 
dukes  proceed  to  slay  the  rebellious  people.     Then  the 


176     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

dukes  fall  to  war  for  the  succession  ;  everywhere  there  is 
battle,  bloodshed,  and  sudden  death,  till,  as  Mandud 
says,  we 

beholde  the  wide  and  hugie  fieldes 
With  bloud  and  bodies  spread  of  rebelles  slayne  ; 
The  lofty  trees  clothed  with  corpses  dead, 
That  strangled  with  the  cord  do  hang  thereon. 

And  finally,  in  the  last  lines  of  the  play,  Eubulus  closes  a 
wild  scream  of  lamentation  with  these  words  : 

But  now,  O  happie  man,  whome  spedie  death 

Deprives  of  life,  ne  is  enforced  to  see 

These  hugie  mischiefes  and  these  miseries, 

These  civill  warres,  these  murders,  and  these  wronges. 

Of  justice  yet  must  God  in  fine  restore 

This  noble  crowne  unto  the  lawfull  heire : 

p'or  right  will  alwayes  live,  and  rise  at  length, 

But  wrong  can  never  take  deepe  roote  to  last. 


CHAPTER    XIX 


THE    DOCTORS    OF   SHAKSPERE'S    TIME 


N  endeavouring  to  reconstruct  these 
times  of  our  Master  Shakspere  —  the 
spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth,  as 
Tennyson  calls  them  —  I  have  been 
struck  with  the  circumstance  that  what 
we  may  call  the  modern  doctor  and 
modern  medicine  really  begin  in  this 
wonderful  period, —  this  last  half  of 
the  sixteenth  century, — just  as  so  many  other  modern 
matters  first  show  themselves  emerging  out  of  the  uni- 
versally excited  activities  of  that  time.  And  thus  I  find 
that  in  any  proper  picture  of  Shakspere's  time  the  physi- 
cians must  form  a  prominent  and  striking  figure,  as 
indeed  they  do  in  any  picture  of  any  time.  We  all  know 
how  the  ever-busy  doctor,  the  never-refusing  doctor,  has 
interwoven  himself,  in  these  modern  times,  into  the  whole 
texture  of  our  lives.  We  begin  to  call  for  him  —  I  was 
going  to  say  —  even  before  we  are  born;  we  continue 
calling  for  him  all  through  our  lives  when  we  are  in  bodily 
trouble,  often  when  we  are  in  mental  trouble  —  at  midday 
or  at  midnight ;  when  he  has  given  us  the  prescription,  we 
always  keep    him    a   little  while  longer  to  talk  to  us,  or 

177 


178     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

rather  to  let  us  talk  to  him  about  our  majestic  selves  — 
that  most  interesting  of  topics  which  somehow  scarcely  any 
of  our  acquaintances  seem  to  appreciate  except  our  doctor; 
and  finally,  after  having  treated  him  all  our  lives  as  a 
being  entirely  superior  to  the  ordinary  claims  of  humanity 
regarding  dinners  and  sleep  and  rest,  we  at  last  call  for 
him  again  when  we  are  going  to  die,  and  then  leave  our 
executors  or  administrators  to  higgle  with  him  about  his 
bill  after  we  are  gone.  So  that  practically,  you  observe, 
the  doctor  is  more  than  interwoven  with  our  whole  life,  for 
he  is  busied  about  us  one  way  or  another  from  before  our 
birth  until  after  our  death. 

Thus,  as  I  was  saying,  since  the  modern  doctor  stands 
in  the  very  foreground  of  modern  society,  and  since  the 
modern  doctor, —  the  follower  of  Vesalius  and  Harvey, — 
as  distinguished  from  the  ancient  doctor,  l?egins  just  about 
Shakspere's  time,  I  felt  a  much  more  than  merely  anti- 
quarian interest  in  collecting  such  references  to  him  as  I 
could  find  in  Shakspere  and  his  contemporary  poets, 
together  with  such  facts  about  the  medicines  and  practice 
peculiar  to  his  class  as  might  be  of  interest  to  a  general 
audience. 

We  have  already  studied  somewhat  the  music  of 
Shakspere's  time,  a  theme  which  connects  itself 
very  charmingly  with  the  physic  of  Shakspere's  time 
through  the  fact  that  music  was  regarded  as  physic 
in  Shakspere's  time  —  as  a  true  remedial  agent,  like 
cassia  and  aloes  and  colocynth,  and  other  drugs.  And 
there  is  even  a  further  congruence  between  the  two 
lectures  in  the  fact  that  now,  without  more  ado,  I  can 
begin  my  treatment  of  the  present  subject  by  introducing 
to  you,  in  a  lovely  scene  from  one  of  Shakspere's  own 
plays,  a  doctor  actually  engaged  in  employing  music  as  a 
medicine  to  restore  a  very  sweet  patient. 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     179 

At  the  moment  when  we  are  to  come  upon  him,  Ceri- 
mon  has  just  had  opened  the  chest  containing  the  body 
of  the  unfortunate  Thaisa,  and  the  piteous  scroll  from 
Pericles  asking  that  whoever  finds  her  should  bury  her  as 
befits  a  queen.  The  first  sight  of  the  supposed  dead  body 
at  once  awakes  all  the  physician  in  Cerimon.  He  breaks 
out,  quick,  sharp,  decided  : 

This  chanc'd  to-night. 

Sec.  Gent.      Most  likely,  sir. 

Cerimon.  Nay,  certainly  to-night ; 

For  look  how  fresh  she  looks  !     They  were  too  rough. 

.   .   .   Make  fire  within  : 

Fetch  hither  all  the  boxes  in  my  closet. 

(^Exit  a  Servant.) 

Death  may  usurp  on  nature  many  hours, 

And  yet  the  fire  of  life  kindle  again 

The  o'erpressed  spirits.      I  heard  of  an  Egyptian 

That  had  nine  hours  lien  dead, 

Who  was  by  good  appliances  recovered. 

Reenter  Servant,  with  boxes^  napkins.,  and  fire. 

Well  said,  well  said ;  the  fire  and  the  cloths. 

The  rough  and  woful  music  that  we  have. 

Cause  it  to  sound,  beseech  you. 

The  vial  once  more  :   how  thou  stirr'st,  thou  block  ! 

The  music  there!      I  pray  you,  give  her  air. 

Gentlemen, 

This  queen  will  live  :   nature  awakes  ;   a    warmth 

Breathes  out  of  her  :  she  hath  not  been  entranc'd 

Above  five  hours :   see  how  she  'gins  to  blow 

Into  life's  flower  again  ! 

It  is  very  delightful  to  think  that  this  superb  por- 
traiture of  the  ideal  doctor  which  Shakspere  has  given  us 
in  the  figure  of  Cerimon  —  a  portraiture  which  ought  to 
be  in   gold  letters    and  framed    and  hung  up    in    every 


i8o     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

medical  college  in  the  land — was  possibly  drawn  from 
an  actual  personage.  We  know,  historically,  that  in  the 
year  1607  Dr.  John  Hall  married  Shakspere's  youngest 
daughter,  Susannah.  Now  Shakspere's  part  of  the  play 
o^  Pericles  was  probably  written  just  about  this  time,  and 
it  seems  very  likely  that  this  son-in-law,  Dr.  John  Hall, 
furnished  him  with  at  least  some  of  the  features  which  go 
to  make  up  the  noble  Dr.  Cerimon.  He  was  himself 
a  writer,  and  was  a  physician  of  great  repute  in  Stratford. 
This  physician  may  indeed  have  been  the  son  of  a  certain 
Dr.  John  Hall  who  wrote  a  work  called  An  Historical  Ex- 
postulation Against  the  Beastly  Abuses  both  of  Chirurgery 
and  Physyke  in  Oure  Tyme. 

In  rummaging  about  the  Peabody  Library  some  days 
ago  I  came  upon  this  work  of  Dr.  John  Hall's  in  one  of 
the  volumes  of  the  Percy  Society's  reprints.  Before 
describing  the  abuses.  Dr.  Hall  gives  us  an  ideal  physi- 
cian according  to  his  views,  and  we  can  easily  see  that  a 
very  lineal  tradition  from  father  to  son  might  have  made 
the  younger  doctor  a  fair  model  for  Shakspere's  picture 
of  Cerimon. 

Here  are  some  of  the  elder  Hall's  ideas  of  the  proper 
chirurgeon ;  and  they  let  us  into  some  curious  features  of 
medical  matters  in  his  time. 

"  Why,"  says  he,  "  is  every  rude,  rustick,  braynsicke 
beast,  fond  fool,  indiscreete  idiote  ;  yea,  every  scoldinge 
drabbe  suffered  thus  ...  to  abuse  this  worthy  arte  upon 
the  body  of  man  ?  What  avayleth  the  goodly  orders 
taken  by  our  forefathers  and  auncient  authores,  that  none 
should  be  admitted  to  the  art  of  chirurgery  that  are  mis- 
create  or  deformed  of  body  ;  as  goggle  or  skwynte  eyed, 
unperfecte  of  sight,  unhelthy  of  body,  unperfecte  of  mynde, 
not  hole  in  his  members,  boystrous  fingers  or  shakyng 
hands.  But  contrarywyse  that  all  that  should  be  admytted 
to   that   arte   should  be  of  clean   and  perfect  sight,  well 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     i8i 

formed  in  person,  hole  of  mynde  and  of  members,  sclender 
and  tender  fingered,  havyng  a  softe  and  stedfast  hande  :  — 
or  as  the  common  sentence  is,  a  chirurgien  should  have 
three  dyvers  properties  in  his  person.  That  is  to  saie,  a 
harte  as  the  harte  of  the  lyon,  his  eyes  like  the  eyes  of  an 
hawke  and  his  handes  as  the  handes  of  a  woman  :  what 
avayleth  this  order,  I  saye,  sithe  the  contrary  in  all  poyntes 
is  put  dayly  in  use,  and  that  almost  without  hope  of 
redresse  ?  Seyng  also  that  those  auncient  authors  had  not 
only  this  regarde  to  the  forme  of  the  body,  but  also,  and 
as  well,  to  the  bewtie  or  ornament  of  the  mynde,  and  an 
honest  conversation  of  him  that  should  be  admitted  to 
chirurgery,  as  are  thes  :  He  ought  to  be  well  manered, 
and  of  good  audacitie,  and  bolde  when  he  may  worke 
surely;  and  contrariwise,  doubtfull  and  fearfull  in  things 
that  be  dangerous  and  desperate.  He  [ought  to]  be  gen- 
tyll  to  his  patients,  witty  in  prognostications,  and  forseyng 
of  dangers,  apte  and  reasonable  to  answer  and  dissolve  all 
doubtes  and  questions  belongynge  to  his  worke.  He  must 
also  be  chaste,  sober,  meeke  and  mercifull ;  no  extorcioner, 
but  so  to  accomplish  his  rewarde  at  the  hands  of  the  ryche 
to  maynteine  his  science  and  necessary  lyvynges,  that  he 
may  helpe  the  poor  for  the  only  sake  of  God  ;  what  mean- 
eth  it,  I  saye  (those  things  considered)  that  so  many  sheepe 
heads,  unwytly,  unlearned  .  .  .  dronkards,  beastly  glut- 
tons, .  .  .  envious,  evill  manered,  shall  thus  myserably 
be  sufFred  to  abuse  so  noble  an  arte."  ^ 

But  our  author's  Treatise  of  Anatomie  gives  us  a  mel- 
ancholy view  of  the  state  of  knowledge  at  that  time,  even 
among  such  good  intenders  as  himself"  For  example, 
"  May  it  not  be  proved,"  says  he,  "  that  the  brayne  (lyke 

1  Cf.  Nicholas  Breton's  "Worthy  sixteenth-century  cure-all  in  The 
Physician"  in  Good  and  Bad,  Two  Noble  Kinsmen :  "This  ques- 
Brydges''  Archaica.           "  tion,  aick  between  us,  by  bleeding 

2  And  there  is  a  dismal  hint  of  the  must  be  cured." 


i82     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

unto  the  heavens)  hangyth  without  any  maner  of  staye  or 
proppe,  to  hold  by  the  same  ?  Nay,  it  is  so  evident  that 
every  learned  anatomiste  writeth  of  the  same  as  a  thynge 
not  to  be  doubted  of,  and  therefore  judge  the  same  to  have 
a  certayne  lykeness  with  the  heavenly  nature."  (Here  is 
an  argument !)  "  And  as  the  world  hath  two  notable 
lyghtes  to  govern  the  same,  namely,  the  sonne  and  the 
moone  ;  so  hath  the  body  of  man,  planted  lykewyse  in  the 
highest  place,  two  lyghtes  called  eyes,  which  are  the  lyghtes 
of  the  body  as  the  sonne  and  the  moon  are  the  lyghtes 
of  the  world.  And  it  is  also  wrytten  of  some  doctors,  that 
the  brayne  hath  VII  concavities,  being  instruments  of  the 
wyttes,  which  answer  unto  the  VII  spheres  of  the  planetes." 
But  the  good  doctor  now  goes  on  to  give  us  many  lively 
pictures  of  the  travelling  quacks  that  went  about  England, 
and  here  we  come  to  a  terribly  effective  foil  to  his  bright 
ideal  of  the  physician.  We  are  apt  nowadays  to  think 
that  the  times  are  frightfully  full  of  quacks  and  cure-alls 
and  all  manner  of  medical  impostures  ;  but  from  the  long 
list  of  wretched  charlatans  which  Hall  gives  here,  and  the 
description  of  their  pretensions,  their  ignorance,  and  their 
brutal  juggleries,  we  are  forced  to  believe  that  Shakspere's 
day  was  far  more  cursed  in  this  kind  than  ours.  Here, 
for  example,  are  two  or  three  of  these  charlatans,  as  Dr. 
Hall  saw  them  :  ^ 

"  Fyrst  there  came  into  the  towne  of  Maydstone,  in 
the  yere  of  our  Lorde  1555  a  woman  which  named  her- 
selfe  Jane.  .  .  .  This  wicked  beast  toke  her  inn  at  the 
signe  of  the  Bell  .  .  .  when  she  caused  within  short  space 

1  The    Apologie  for    Poetrie   has    a  which    afterwards    send   Charon    a 

vicious  fling  by  the  way  at  the  regular  great  number  of  soules  drowned  in 

practitioners:   "How  often,  thinke  a  potion  before  they  come  to  his 

you,  doc  the   Phisitians  lye,  when  Ferry?" 
they  aver  things  good  for  sicknesses. 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    183 

to  be  published  that  she  could  heale  all  maner,  both  inward 
and  outward  diseases.  One  powder  she  carried  in  a  bladcr, 
made  of  the  herbe  daphnoydes  and  anise  seed  together, 
which  she  (as  an  onelye  sufficient  remedie  for  all  grefes) 
administered  unto  all  her  foolish  patients,  in  lyke  quantitie 
to  all  people  neyther  regarding  tyme,  strength  nor  age." 
He  tells  how  she  worked  away  at  a  sick  child  who  finally 
died  of  her  terrible  doses  ;  whereupon  she  ran  away  ;  and 
the  irate  doctor  adds  exultingly  that  in  running  away 
she  stole  "  the  sheets,  pillow-beres  and  blankets  "  from 
the  landlord's  bed,  and  not  only  that :  it  was  discovered 
after  she  left  that  she  had  ordered  the  servant  at  the  inn 
to  bring  her  up  muscadel  wine  whenever  she  ordered 
beer. 

"  Then  again  in  the  next  year  came  to  Maydstone  one 
Robert  Harris,  professing  by  only  looking  in  one's  face  to 
tell  what  they  had  done  and  what  had  chaunced  to  them  all 
their  lyfe  tyme  before.  And  for  jestyng  a  lyttell  agaynst 
the  madness  of  this  deceaver,  I  had  a  dagger  drawne  at 
me  not  long  after. 

"  Again,  a  couple  of  years  afterward  came  one  Thomas 
Lufkyn,  a  cloth-fuller  by  trade,  who  had  been  long  absent 
from  the  towne,  in  which  time  he  had  been  roving  abroad, 
and  had  become  a  physician,  a  chirurgien,  an  astronomier, 
a  palmister,  a  phisiognomier,  a  sothsayer,  a  fortune  devyner, 
and  I  cannot  tell  what.  .  .  .  This  deceaver  was  the  beast- 
liest beguiler  by  his  sorcerys  that  ever  I  herd  of,  making 
physike  the  only  colour  to  cover  all  his  crafty  thefte  and 
mischieves,  for  he  set  uppe  a  byll  at  hys  fyrste  commynge, 
to  publishe  his  beyng  there,  the  tenour  whereof  was  in 
effect  as  followeth  : — If  any  manne,  womanne,  or  childe  bee 
sicke,  or  would  be  let  blood,  or  bee  deseased  with  any 
maner  of  inward  or  outwarde  grefes,  as  al  maner  of  agues, 
or  fevers,  plurises,  cholyke,  .   .  .  goutes  .   .   .  bone  ache 


i84     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

.  .  .  and  pavne  of  thejoynts  .  .  .  let  them  resorte  to  the 
sygne  of  the  Sarazen's  Hedde,  in  the  easte  lane,  .  .  ,  and 
they  shall  have  remedie, 

By  me,  Thomas  Luffkin. 

Unto  this  divell  incarnate  reserted  all  sortes  of  vayne 
and  indiscrete  persons,  as  it  were  to  a  God, —  especially 
women  to  know  how  many  hisbands  .  .  .  they  should 
have,  and  whether  they  should  burie  their  husbands  then 
lyving.  .  .  .  There  was  not  so  great  a  secret  that  he 
would  not  take  it  upon  him  to  declare  ...  by  astro- 
nomie.  Well,  the  ende  of  hys  being  there  was  as  it  is 
commen  wyth  them  all,  wythoute  anye  difference,  for  he 
sodainlye  was  gone  wyth  many  a  poore  man's  moneye, 
whyche  he  had  taken  beforehand  promisinge  them 
helpe,  which  onlye  he  recompensed  wyth  the  winge  of  his 
heles." 

And  then  came  another  different  medical  impostor 
calling  himself  Master  Wynkfelde,  pretending  to  tell  all 
diseases  by  looking  at  people's  faces.  Upon  a  certain 
occasion  sending  a  verbal  prescription  to  the  apothecary, 
the  apothecary  asked  the  messenger  why  Wynkfelde  did 
not  write  for  his  things,  whereunto  the  messenger  answered 
that  "  Mayster  Wynkfelde  was  a  right  Latynist,  for  he 
could  wryte  no  Englysh.  By  this  ye  may  perceave  he 
was  a  well  learned  man."  Many  adventures  he  had,  and 
much  report ;  presently  it  turned  out  that  Master  Wynk- 
felde "  had  III  wyves  lyving  at  present."  Whereupon  he 
had  to  flee  ;  and  Hall  adds,  "The  truthe  was  ...  he  had 
no  learnyng  in  the  world,  nor  could  reade  English  (and 
as  I  suppose  knewe  not  .  .  .  a  b  from  a  bateldore)  .  .  . 
yet  made  he  the  people  believe  that  he  could  speke  Latin, 
Greek  and  Hebrue."  And  again  there  came  a  woman 
professing    to    have    travelled    everywhere,  administering 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     185 

physic ;  ^  but  upon  being  examined  by  the  authorities  as 
to  her  knowledge  and  her  certificate  to  practise  medicine, 
"  she  sayde  she  was  never  before  so  examined  .  .  .  neither 
sawe  she  ever  the  place  that  a  woman  could  finde  so  little 
curtesie ;  .  .  .  nevertheless  she  was  expelled  the  town." 
Finally  there  came  one  Nichols  who  had  a  very  prosperous 
career ;  and  the  sturdy  Hall  got  him  up  for  examination 
and  showed  that  he  did  not  know  one  medicine  from  an- 
other, and  that  he  thought  cassia  was  so  called  because  it 
was  like  a  case ;  but  still  he  remained  and  practised. 
"  One  day  this  man  made  his  vaunte  that  he  sawe  his 
maister  close  a  man's  head  together  that  was  cleft  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  down  to  the  necke,  who  sayde  he  was 
after  healed,  and  did  live.  This  shameless  lye,  beyng 
hearde  of  a  mery  man  was  quited,  on  this  sorte.  Tushe^ 
(sayd  this  mery  man)  I  have  heard  of  as  great  a  matter  as 
this ;  for  a  certayne  man  fallyng  into  the  hands  of  theves 
was  robbed,  and  his  head  so  smoothe  cutte  oflF  that  it 
stoode  styll  upon  his  necke  tyll  he  rode  home  ;  whose  wyfe 
metyng  him  at  the  doore,  perceived  his  bosome  bloudy, 
and  asked  him  if  his  nose  had  bledde  ;  which  wordes  when 
the  man  heard,  he  tooke  his  nose  in  his  hand  to  blow  it, 
and  therewith  threw  his  head  in  at  the  dore.  And  now," 
says  the  doctor,  "  I  leave  this  .  .  .  monster  least  I  should 
too  much  weary  the  lovynge  reader."  But  he  cunningly 
goes  on.  Paragraph  after  paragraph  he  begins  :  "  I  will 
omit  to  tell  of  So-and-so,  who  did  so-and-so  "  :  omitting 
also  one  Carter  who  was  a  sorcerer  and  did  so-and-so  ; 
and  he  will  also  "  omitte  to  tell  of  Grygge  the  Poulter  " 
who  did  so-and-so;  and  of  the  "joyner"  in  London,  a 
Frenchman,  who  did  so-and-so  ;  and  so  on. 

^  Cf.  the   Lady  Loose-pain  in  the      cient  lady  leeches  and  the  modern 
Percy  Ballad.      It  would  be   inter-     women  doctors, 
esting  to  compare  in  detail  the  an- 


1 86     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

It  may  be  well  enough,  however,  to  cap  these  specimens 
of  sixteenth-century  quackery  with  an  account  of  a  certain 
wholesale  quackery  written  by  a  medical  friend  with  whom 
our  Dr.  John  Hall  seems  to  have  been  intimate  —  Dr. 
Thomas  Gale  —  in  1563.  Gale  had  served  in  the  army, 
and  in  one  place  he  says  :  "  I  remember  when  I  was  in  the 
wars  in  the  time  of  the  most  famous  prince,  King  Henry 
VIII,  there  was  a  great  rabblement  there,  that  took  upon 
them  to  be  surgeons.  Some  were  pig-doctors,  some  were 
horse  doctors,  some  tinkers  and  coblers.  This  noble  sect 
.  .  .  got  themselves  .  .  .  for  their  notorious  cures,  called 
dog-leachers,  for  in  two  dressings  they  did  commonly 
make  their  cures  so  that  they  neither  felt  heat  nor  cold 
nor  no  manner  of  pain  after.  But  when  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  who  was  then  general,  understood  how  the  sol- 
diers did  die,  and  that  of  small  wounds,  he  sent  for  me 
and  certain  other  surgeons  ;  and  we  made  search  through 
all  the  camp  and  found  many  of  the  same  good  fellows 
which  took  upon  them  the  name  of  surgeons, —  not  only 
the  name  but  the  wages  also.  We  asking  of  them  whether 
they  were  surgeons  or  no,  they  said  they  were.  .  .  .  Then 
we  demanded  of  them  what  chirurgcry  stuff  they  had  to 
cure  men  withal,  and  they  would  show  us  a  pot  or  box, 
wherein  was  such  trumpery  as  they  did  use  to  grease 
horses  heels  withal  .  .  .  and  such  like.  And  other  that 
were  coblers  and  tinkers,  they  used  shoemaker's  wax, 
with  the  rust  of  old  pans,  and  made  therewithal  a  noble 
salve  as  they  did  term  it.  But  in  the  end  this  worthy 
rabblement  was  committed  to  the  Marshalsea  and  threat- 
ened by  the  duke's  grace  to  be  hanged  .  .  .  except  they 
would  declare  what  they  were,  and  in  the  end  they  did 
confess,  as  I  have  declared  to  you."  ^ 

ICf.  Chettle's  Kind  Hearths  Dream:    *'  To  the  impudent  discreditors  of 
Phisickes   Art,  either  speedy  Amcndcmcnt     or     punishment."         (The 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     187 

After  looking  upon  these  pictures,  we  need  not  be  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Shakspere,  among  the  thousand  types  of 
characters  which  he  studied,  gives  us  some  views  of  the 
doctor  quite  different  from  that  of  Cerimon.  For  exam- 
ple, compare  the  celebrated  passage  in  Act  V,  Scene  III 
oi  Macbethy  where  we  get  a  vivid  glimpse  of  the  relations 
very  likely  to  subsist  between  a  man  of  affairs,  like  Mac- 
beth, and  a  man  of  pure  ideas,  like  a  doctor.  It  is  in 
Scene  I  of  this  act,  you  remember,  that  the  Doctor  is  first 
introduced.  Lady  Macbeth's  gentlewoman  has  happened 
to  see  the  guilty  Qiieen  walking  in  her  sleep  ;  and,  not 
knowing  what  to  do  about  it,  has  called  in  the  Doctor  — 
showing  that  old  times  were  very  much  like  modern  ones 
in  this  particular.  We  have  in  this  scene  the  wonderful 
sleep-walking  speech  of  Lady  Macbeth,  while  the  gentle- 
woman and  the  Doctor  stand  close  ;  and  the  Doctor,  after 
she  retires,  concludes  :  "  More  needs  she  the  divine  than 
the  physician."  But  in  Scene  III  we  have  the  wild  Mac- 
beth one  minute  cursing  the  servant  who  brings  him  news 
of  the  English,  the  next  minute  calling  for  his  armour,  and 
then  turning  to  the  physician.  "  How  does  your  patient, 
doctor  ?  "  he  asks. 

Doct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Mach.  Cure  her  of  that. 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow. 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain. 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stufFd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

tooth-drawers   had   acquired   the  name  of  Kind-heart — possibly  because 
some  famous  dentist  bore  this  name  and  so  cognomened  the  tribe.) 


i88     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Macb.     Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  I'll  none  of  it,i  etc. 

And  it  is  not  surprising  to  hear  the  Doctor  presently 
declaring  : 

Were  I  from  Dunsinane  away  and  clear, 
Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here.- 

This  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs  always  reminds  me  of  a 
cunning  passage  in  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale  when  Arcite 
has  been  thrown  and  fearfully  crushed  by  his  horse,  and 
after  telling  how  all  the  leechcraft  of  the  time  —  bleeding 
being  the  main  resort — has  been  tried  to  no  purpose, 
because  nature  hath  now  no  "  dominacioun "  over  the 
man's  body,  Chaucer  exclaims  in  one  of  his  peculiar  bright 
sallies  : 

And  certeynly  when  Nature  wil  not  wirche, 
Farwel  phisilc ;  go  here  the  man  to  chirche. 

It  is  interesting  to  think  that  etymologically  "physic" 
means  nature  :  cf  Greek  ^oaixd?,  natural,  from  <f  uot?,  na- 
ture;  and  we  can  here  get  a  realising  sense  of  the  dis- 
tance to  which  the  meaning  of  a  word  may  depart  from  its 
original  sense  when  we  here  find  Chaucer  using  nature 
and  physic  as  two  precisely  contradictory  terms,  though 
physic  originally  meant  exactly  nature  and  nothing  more. 

It  would  seem  that  the  functions  of  the  apothecary  and 
the  doctor  were  not  so  distinct  in  Shakspere's  time  as  at 
present,  and  so  a  view  of  the  doctors  of  this  period  must 
embrace  also  a  glimpse  at  the  apothecary.  As  such  a 
glimpse,  recall  that  powerful  description  of  the  apothecary 
in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  V,  Scene  I.      Balthasar  brings  the 

1  Cf.  AWs  Well  that  Ends  Well,  ^  Cf.  Dr.  Pinch  in  Comedy  of  Er- 
Act  I,  Scene  I  :  *'  He  hath  aban-  rors.  Act  IV,  Scene  IV,  and  Dr. 
doned  his  phj'sicians,  madam,"  etc.      Caius  in  Merry  Wives,  passim. 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    189 

mortal  news  from  Verona  that  Juliet  is  dead ;  and,  in  his 
customary  lightning  way,  Romeo  instantly  resolves  to  go 
and  die  alongside  her  dear  body.  And  then,  how  to  die  ? 
"  Let's  see  for  means."  And  straight  the  idea  of  poison 
comes. 

I  do  remember  an  apothecary, 
And  hereabouts  a'  dwells,  which  late  I  noted 
In  tatter'd  weeds,  with  overwhelming  brows, 
Culling  of  simples  ;   meagre  were  his  looks  ; 
Sharp  misery  had  worn  him  to  the  bones : 
And  in  his  needy  shop 

(doubtless  Shakspere  is  here  picturing  some  actual  apothe- 
cary's shop  he  had  seen) 

a  tortoise  hung. 
An  alligator  stuft'd  and  other  skins 
Of  ill-shap'd  fishes  ;  and  about  his  shelves 
A  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes. 
Green  earthen  pots,  bladders  and  musty  seeds. 
Remnants  of  packthread  and  old  cakes  of  roses. 
Were  thinly  scatter'd,  to  make  up  a  show. 
Noting  this  penury,  to  myself  I  said. 
An  if  a  man  did  need  a  poison  now. 
Whose  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua, 
Here  lives  a  caitiff  wretch  would  sell  it  him.   .   .   . 
What,  ho  !  apothecary  ! 

Enter  Apothecary. 

Apoth.  Who  calls  so  loud  ? 

Romeo.      Come  hither,  man.      I  see  that  thou  art  poor ; 
Hold,  there  is  forty  ducats  :   let  me  have 
A  dram  of  poison  ;  such  soon-spreading  gear 
As  will  disperse  itself  through  all  the  veins. 
That  the  life-weary  taker  may  fall  dead. 
And  that  the  trunk  may  be  discharg'd  of  breath 
As  violently  as  hasty  powder  fired 
Doth  hurry  from  the  fatal  cannon's  womb. 


I90    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Apoth.      Such  mortal  drugs  I  have  ;   but  Mantua's  law 
Is  death  to  any  he  that  utters  them. 

Romeo.     Art  thou  so  bare  and  full  of  wretchedness, 
And  fear'st  to  die  ?   famine  is  in  thy  cheeks, 
Need  and  oppression  starveth  in  thine  eyes, 
Contempt  and  beggary  hang  upon  thy  back, 
The  world  is  not  thy  friend,  nor  the  world's  law  : 
The  world  affords  no  law  to  make  thee  rich  -, 
Then  be  not  poor,  but  break  it,  and  take  this. 

Apoth.      My  poverty,  but  not  my  will,  consents. 

Romeo.      I  pay  thy  poverty,  and  not  thy  will. 

Apoth.      Put  this  in  any  liquid  thing  you  will, 
And  drink  it  off;  and,  if  you  had  the  strength 
Of  twenty  men,  it  would  dispatch  you  straight. 

Romeo.      There  is  thy  gold,  worse  poison  to  men's  souls. 
Doing  more  murder  in  this  loathsome  world. 
Than  these  poor  compounds  that  thou  mayst  not  sell : 
I  sell  thee  poison,  thou  hast  sold  me  none. 
Farewell  :   buy  food,  and  get  thyself  in  flesh. 
Come,  cordial  and  not  poison,  go  with  me 
To  Juliet's  grave  ;   for  there  must  I  use  thee. 

Several  items  in  this  apothecary  picture  lead  me  now  to 
bring  before  you  a  very  lifelike  account  of  the  rascally 
apothecary,  given  by  a  writer  whom  we  may  call  Shakspere's 
contemporary,  though  he  is  a  few  years  before  Shakspere. 
I  mean  old  John  Heywood,  of  whom  we  have  already  had 
a  taste  in  another  connection.  In  that  same  interlude  called 
'The  Four  P's  —  the  four  P's  being,  you  remember,  The 
Palmer  (Pilgrim),  The  Pedler^  The  Poticary^  and  The  Par- 
doner— he  introduces  us  to  four  very  notable  characters, 
and  manages  to  make  them  lampoon  themselves  very 
effectually  in  the  absurd  dialogue  which  they  carry  on 
throughout  this  interlude. 

After  some  flouting  and  gibing  at  each  other's  rascality 
—  and  they  are  certainly  as  precious  a  quartette  of  rascals 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     191 

as  ever  gulled  the  people  —  the  Pardoner,  you  will  recall, 
begins  to  brag  of  the  efficacy  of  his  bulls  and  indulgences 
and  pardons. 

I  say  yet  againe  [says  he]  my  pardons  are  suche 

That  yf  there  were  a  thousand  soules  on  a  hepe 

I  wold  brynge  them  all  to  heaven,  as  good  chepe, 

As  ye  have  brought  yourselfe  on  pylgrymage 

In  the  least  quarter  of  your  vyage  ; 

With  smale  cost  and  without  any  payne 

These  pardons  bring  them  to  heaven  playne ; 

Geve  me  but  a  peny  or  two  pens 

And  assone  as  the  soule  departeth  hens. 

In  half  an  houre,  or  three  quarters  at  the  moste, 

The  soule  is  in  heven,  with  the  holy  ghost. 

Here  the  Poticary  strikes  in  : 

Sende  ye  any  soules  to  heaven  by  water? 

Pardoner.     If  we  doo  sir,  what  is  the  mater  ? 

Poticary.      By  god,  I  have  a  drye  soule  shoulde  thyther; 
I  praye  you  let  our  soules  go  to  heven  togyther : 
So  bysy  you  twayne  be  in  soules  helth 
May  not  a  poticary  come  in  by  stelth  ?   .   .   . 
No  soule,  ye  knowe,  entreth  heven  gate, 
Tyll  from  the  bodye  he  be  separate  : 
And  whome  have  ye  knowen  dye  honestly 
Without  helpe  of  the  potycary  ? 
Nay,  all  that  commeth  to  our  handlynge. 
Except  ye  happe  to  come  to  hangynge ; 
That  way  perchanse,  ye  shall  not  myster 
To  go  to  heven  without  a  glyster. 
But  ye  be  sure  I  wold  be  wo 
If  ye  shoulde  chaunce  to  begyle  me  so, 
As  good  to  lye  with  me  a  nyght 
As  hang  abrode  in  the  mone  light. 


192     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Syns  of  our  soules  the  multitude 
I  sende  to  heven  when  all  is  vewd. 
Who  should  but  I  then  all  togyther 
Have  thanke  of  all  theyr  comynge  thyther  ? 

Pardoner.      If  ye  kyl'd  a  thousande  in  an  houre  space, 
When  come  they  to  heven,  dyenge  out  of  grace  ? 

Poticary.       If  a   thousande    pardons    about   your   necks 
were  teyd. 
When  came  they  to  heven  yf  they  never  dyed  ? 

And  here  we  have  a  curious  list  of  the  names  of  apothe- 
caries' drugs ; 

Poticary.      Here  is  a  syrapus  de  Byzansis 
A  lytell  thynge  is  inough  of  thys  : 
For  even  the  weyght  of  one  scryppal 
Shall  make  you  as  strong  as  a  cryppul. 
Here  are  other  as  diosialos, 
Diagalanga  and  sticados 
Blanka,  manna,  diaspoliticon, 
Mercury  sublyme  and  mitridaticon, 
Pellitory  and  arscfetita 
Cassy  and  colloquintida. 
These  be  the  thynges  that  breke  all  stryfe. 
Between  man's  sycknes  and  his  lyfe.   .   .   . 

This  list  of  medicines  leads  me  now  to  speak  of  one  drug 
which  played  a  much  more  important  part  in  the  phar- 
macy of  Shakspere's  time  than  ours,  though  we  use  it 
much  more  freely  than  then,  under  a  very  different  rubric. 
I  mean  tobacco.  When  Shakspere  was  just  emerging 
into  manhood  —  twenty  or  twenty-one  years  old,  say  — 
tobacco  was  widely  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
medicines  the  world  had  ever  known,  and  was  often  pre- 
scribed by  physicians  in  case  of  sickness.  Indeed, —  as 
you  will  presently  see  by  some  citations  from  contempo- 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     193 

rary  writers, —  many  regarded  it  as  a  perfect  cure-all,  and 
thought  that  tobacco-smoke,  if  sent  into  the  body,  would 
chase  out   diseases,  just  as  hunters  smoke   game  out  of 
hollow  trees.     Some  of  the  literature  of  this  subject  is  so 
curious,  and  reveals  to  us  so  many  of  the  crude  notions 
which   our   ancestors  —  even    the   wisest   among   them  — 
held  regarding  the  human  organs  and  the  action  of  medi- 
cines upon  them,  that  I   think  you  will  be  interested  in 
several  citations  from  writers  of  Shakspere's  time  relating 
to  the  medicinal  virtues  of  tobacco.      Singularly  enough, 
I  can  cite  you  nothing  on  tobacco  from  Shakspere.      So 
far  as   I   now  recollect,  there  is  not  a  single  word  about 
tobacco,  or  the  remotest  allusion  to  it,  in  all  his  plays  and 
poems.     This    is    the    more    remarkable    because    other 
writers  of  his  time  abound  in  allusions  to  it ;  a  whole  war 
of  books  and  pamphlets  in  prose  and  verse  was  carried  on 
about  tobacco,  in  which  even  King  James  was  one  of  the 
disputants  ;  and  in  a  thousand  ways  we  see  that  the  won- 
derful rapidity  with  which  tobacco  took  hold  of  the  English 
people  had  excited  great  attention  long  before  Shakspere 
died.     Although  Shakspere  was  a  man  when  people  began 
to    smoke    tobacco  (or  to   drink   tobacco,  as  it  was  then 
called  —  you  asked  a  friend  to  drink  tobacco  with  you), 
the   custom  had  become  so  common  that  we  find   King 
James  early  in  the  seventeenth  century  foreboding  that  it 
would  ruin  the  health  of  his  whole  people.     And,  what  is 
more  specially  to  the  point  here,  smoking  appears  to  have 
been  carried  on  at  the  theatres  more  vigorously  than  any- 
where else.      I  find  this  often  mentioned,  and  Shakspere 
himself  must  have  had  to  act  day  after  day  in  the  midst 
of  a  stage  reeking  with  smoke  from  the  pipes  in  the  pit 
and  those  affected  by  the  gallants  who  used  to  sit  on  the 
stage  among  the  players.      But  withal  never  a  word  from 
Shakspere  about  tobacco  :  and  it  must  certainly  be  regarded 


194    SHAKSPERK    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

one  of  the  most  curious  silences,  that  one  whose  eye  never 
missed  anything  in  his  time  has  omitted  to  make  any  record 
of  what  we  may  perhaps  fairly  call  the  most  novel  sight  of 
his  age  —  the  sight  of  people  everywhere  swallowing  the 
smoke  of  a  drug  and  puffing  it  out  again  from  mouth  and 
nostrils. 

Here  are  some  citations  giving  the  early  stories  and 
opinions  about  this  drug  when  it  was  first  being  intro- 
duced into  England  and  France.^ 

The  first  mention  of  the  herb  in  English  seems  to  be  in 
a  translation,  by  "John  Frampton,  Marchant,"  of  a  Spanish 
work  which  Nicholas  Monardes  issued  at  Seville  in  1571. 
Frampton  says  in  the  dedication  to  his  first  edition  (1577): 
"  Retourning  right  worshipfull,  home  into  Englande  oute 
of  Spaine,  and  now  not  pressed  with  the  former  toiles  of 
my  old  trade,  I  to  passe  the  tyme  to  some  benefite  of  my 
countrie,  and  to  avoyde  idlenesse :  tooke  in  hande  to 
translate  out  of  Spanishe  into  Englishe,  the  thre  bookes 
of  Doctour  Monardes  of  Scvill,  the  learned  Phisition, 
treating  of  the  singuler  and  rare  vertues  of  certaine  Hearbes, 
Trees,  Oyles,  Plantes,  Stones,  and  Drugges  of  the  Weste 
Indies.   ..." 

Among  the  "  singuler  and  rare  vertues  "  of  the  "  Hearbe 
I'abaco''  ("an  Hearbe  of  much  antiquitie,"  the  proper  name 
of  which  "  amongest  the  Indians  is  Picielt^  for  the  name 
Tabaco  is  geven  to  it  by  our  Spainardes,  by  reason  of  an 
Island  that  is  named  Tabaco  ")  was  that  of  divination  : 

"  One  of  the  mervelles  of  this  hearbe,  and  that  which 
bringeth  most  admiration,  is,  the  maner  howe  the  Priestes 
of  the  Indias  did  use  it,  which  was  in  this  manner:  when 
there  was  emongest  the  Indians  any  manner  of  businesse, 
of  greate  importaunce,  in  the  which  the  chiefe  Gentlemen 

1  See  King  James's  •*  Essayes  in  Poesie  "  and  **Counterblaste  to  Tobacco" 
in  Arber's  English  Reprints,  pages  81  et  seq. 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     195 

called  Casiques^  or  any  of  the  principall  people  of  the 
countrie,  had  necessitle  to  consult  with  their  Priestes,  in 
any  business  of  importance  ;  they  went  and  propounded 
their  matter  to  their  chiefe  Priest,  forthwith  in  their  pres- 
ence, he  tooke  certayne  leaves  of  the  T'abaco^  and  cast  them 
into  the  fire,  and  did  receive  the  smoke  of  them  at  his 
mouth,  and  at  his  nose  with  a  Cane,  and  in  taking  of  it,  he 
fell  downe  uppon  the  ground,  as  a  Dead  man,  and  remayn- 
ing  so,  according  to  the  quantitie  of  the  smoke  that  he  had 
taken,  when  the  hearbe  had  done  his  worke,  he  did  revive 
and  awake,  and  gave  them  their  answeres,  according  to  the 
visions,  and  illusions  which  he  sawe,  whiles  he  was  rapt  in 
the  same  manner,  and  he  did  interprete  to  them,  as  to  him 
seemed  best,  or  as  the  Devill  had  counselled  him,  geving 
them  continually  doubtful  answeares,  in  such  sorte,  that 
howsoever  it  fell  out,  they  might  say  that  it  was  the  same, 
which  was  declared,  and  the  answeare  that  he  made. 

"In  like  sort  the  rest  of  the  Indians  for  their  pastime, 
doe  take  the  smoke  of  the  'Tabaco,  too  make  themselves 
drunke  withall,  and  to  see  the  visions,  and  thinges  that 
represent  unto  them  that  wherein  they  doe  delight :  and 
other  times  they  take  it  to  knowe  their  businesse,  and  suc- 
cesse,  because  conformable  to  that,  whiche  they  have  seene 
beyng  drunke  therewith,  even  so  they  judge  of  their 
businesse.  And  as  the  Devil  is  a  deceaver,  and  hath  the 
knowledge  of  the  vertue  of  hearbes,  so  he  did  shew  the 
vertue  of  this  Hearb,  that  by  the  meanes  thereof,  they 
might  see  their  imaginations,  and  visions,  that  he  hath 
represented  to  them,  and  by  that  meanes  deceave  them." 

Under  the  name  o{  Nicotiane  (modern  nicotine  —  after 
a  French  John  Nicot,  who  was  ambassador  in  Portugal, 
and  who  sent  it  to  France  as  a  wonderful  medicine)  the 
"  hearbe "  now  acquired  a  reputation  for  working  most 
wonderful  cures  of  all  sorts.     Nicot's  own  story  of  its  dis- 


196     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

covery  by  him  occurs  in  Liebault's  edition  of  Charles 
Estienne's  Farming  and  the  Country  House  [U Agriculture 
et  Maison  Rustique) : 

"  Maister  lohn  Nicot^  Counseller  to  the  King,  being 
Embassadour  for  his  Maiestie  in  Portugall,  in  the  yeere  of 
our  Lorde.  1558.  59.  60.  went  one  day  to  see  the  Prysons 
of  the  King  of  Portugall :  and  a  Gentleman  beeyng  the 
keeper  of  the  sade  Prisons  presented  him  with  this  hearb, 
as  a  strange  Plant  brought  from  Florida.  The  same 
Maister  Nicot^  having  caused  the  said  hearb  to  be  set  in 
his  Garden,  where  it  grewe  and  multiplied  marvellously, 
was  uppon  a  time  advertised,  by  one  of  his  Pages,  that  a 
young  man,  of  kinne  to  that  Page  made  asaye  of  that 
hearbe  brused  both  the  hearbe  and  the  luice  together 
uppon  an  ulcer,  which  he  had  upon  his  cheeke  .  .  .  where- 
with hee  found  himselfe  mervellously  eased.  Therefore 
the  saide  Maister  Nicot  caused  the  sicke  younge  man  to 
bee  brought  before  him,  and  causing  the  saide  hearb  to 
bee  continued  to  the  sore  eight  or  ten  dales,  this  said  Noli 
me  tangere  was  utterly  extinguished  and  healed.   .   .   . 

"  Within  a  while  after,  one  of  the  Cookes  of  the  sayde 
Embassadour  having  almost  cutte  off  his  thombe,  with  a 
great  chopping  knyfe,  the  Steward  of  the  house  of  the 
sayde  Gentleman  ran  to  the  sayde  Nicotiane^  and  dressed 
him  therewith  five  or  six  tymes,  and  so  in  the  ende  thereof 
he  was  healed  :  from  that  time  forward  this  hearbe  began 
to  bee  famous  throughout  Lishebron^  where  the  court  of 
the  kyng  of  Portugall  was  at  that  present,  and  the  vertue 
of  this  sayde  hearbe  was  extolled,  and  the  people  began  to 
name  it  the  Ambassadours  hearbe."  People  came  from 
all  parts  to  be  cured  of  ulcers,  and  many  other  afflictions, 
ranging  apparently  from  ringworm  to  "  shorte  breath  "  ! 

"  Moreover,"  continues  Liebault,  "  the  inhabitantes  of 
Florida  do  nourish   themselves  certaine   tymes,  with  the 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    197 

smoke  of  this  Hearbe,  which  they  receave  at  the  mouth 
through  certaine  coffins,  suche  as  the  Grocers  do  use  to 
put  in  their  Spices." 

It  was  in  this  matter  of  receiving  its  smoke  at  the 
mouth  "  through  certaine  coffins  "  that  tobacco  began  to 
occupy  a  large  amount  of  attention  from  Englishmen  dur- 
ing the  last  decade  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  seems 
probable,  by  the  way,  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  had  far  less 
to  do  with  the  introduction  of  tobacco  into  England  than 
had  Master  Ralph  Lane ;  and  the  well-known  tale  of  his 
being  doused  while  smoking  by  his  servant,  who  thought 
his  master  on  fire,  exists  in  too  many  variations  to  be  con- 
sidered very  trustworthy. 

The  controversy  which  soon  arose  over  this  new  and 
strange  custom  is  very  ingeniously  presented  by  Ben  Jon- 
son  in  his  comedy  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  (acted 
November  25,  1596): 

Says  Bobadilla  : 

Body  of  me :  here's  the  remainder  of  seven  pound,  since  yes- 
terday was  sevennight.  It's  your  right  Trtnidado :  did  you  never 
take  any,  signior  ? 

Stephana.  No  truly  sir  ?  but  i'le  learne  to  take  it  now  since 
you  commend  it  so. 

Bobadilla.  Signior  beleeve  me,  (upon  my  relation)  f&r  what  I 
tel  you,  the  world  shall  not  improve.  I  have  been  in  the  Indies 
(where  this  herbe  growes)  where  neither  my  selfe,  nor  a  dozen 
Gentlemen  more  (of  my  knowledge)  have  received  the  taste  of 
any  other  nutriment,  in  the  world,  for  the  space  of  one  and  twentie 
weekes,  but  Tabacco  onely.  Therefore  it  cannot  be  but  'tis  most 
divine.  Further,  take  it  in  the  nature,  in  the  true  kinde  so,  it 
makes  an  Antidote,  that  (had  you  taken  the  most  deadly  poyson- 
ous  simple  in  all  Florence,  it  should  expell  it,  and  clarifie  you, 
with  as  much  ease,  as  I  speak.  And  for  your  greene  wound,  your 
Bahamum.,2iX\A  your are  all  mere  gulleries  and  trash  to  it, espe- 


198     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

cially  your  Ti-'inidado ;  yonr  Newcotian  is  good  too:  I  could  say 
what  I  know  of  the  vertue  of  it,  for  the  exposing  of  rewmes,  raw 
humors,  crudities,  obstructions,  with  a  thousand  of  this  kind  ;  but 
I  professe  my  selfe  no  quack-salver  :  only  thus  much  :  by  Hercules 
I  doe  holde  it,  and  will  affirme  it  (before  any  Prince  in  Europe)  to 
be  the  most  soveraigne  and  pretious  herbe,  that  ever  the  earth 
tendred  to  the  use  of  man. 

Cob  presently  has  his  say  on  the  other  side  : 

By  gods  deynes :  I  marie  what  pleasure  or  felicitie  they 
have  in  taking  this  rogish  Tabacco  :  it's  good  for  nothing  but  to 
choake  a  man,  and  fill  him  full  of  smoake,  and  imbers  :  there  were 
foure  died  out  of  one  house  last  weeke  with  taking  of  it,  and  two 
more  the  bell  went  for  yester-night,  one  of  them  (they  say)  will 
ne're  scape  it,  he  voyded  a  bushell  of  soote  yester-day,  upward  and 
downeward.  By  the  stockes ;  and  there  were  no  wiser  men  then 
I,  rid  have  it  present  death,  man  or  woman,  that  should  but  deale 
with  a  Tabacco  pipe ;  why  it  will  stifle  them  all  in  the'nd  as 
many  as  use  it ;   it's  little  better  than  rats  bane. 

King  James  himself  took  a  leading  part  in  the  battle 
over  tobacco.  His  Counterblaste  to  Tobacco  is  a  piece  of 
invective  against  the  users  of  the  herb  that  seems  to  have 
difficulty  in  finding  words  strong  enough.  It  winds  up: 
"  A  custome  loathsome  to  the  eye,  hatefull  to  the  Nose, 
harmefull  to  the  braine,  dangerous  to  the  Lungs,  and  in 
the  blacke  stinking  fume  thereof,  neerest  resembling  the 
horrible  Stigian  smoke  of  the  pit  that  is  bottomlesse." 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  kingly  displeasure  which  did  not 
even  stop  at  words  but  proclaimed  fines  and  "  corporal! 
Punishments  "  for  the  disobedient,  it  is  astonishing  to  see 
how  rapidly  the  practice  of  smoking  grew.  "  Barnabee 
Rych  Gentleman,  Servant  to  the  Kings  most  Excellent 
Maiestie,"  says  in  16 14: 


Dr.  Thomas  Linacre 

First  president  of  the  R.iyal  College  of  Physicians 
From  an  engraving  by  H.  Cook 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME     199 

"  I  have  heard  It  tolde  that  now  very  lately,  there  hath 
bin  a  Cathalogue  taken  of  all  those  new  erected  houses  that 
have  set  uppe  that  Trade  of  selling  Tobacco,  in  London 
and  neare  about  London  :  and  if  a  man  may  beleeve  what 
is  confidently  reported,  there  are  found  to  be  upward  of 
7000.  houses  that  doth  live  by  that  trade."  He  goes  on 
presently  :  "  It  may  well  bee  supposed  to  be  but  an  ill 
customed  shoppe,  that  taketh  not  five  shillings  a  day,  one 
day  with  another,  throughout  the  whole  yeare,  or  if  one 
doth  take  lesse,  two  other  may  take  more :  but  let  us 
make  our  account,  but  after  1  shillings  sixe  pence  a  day,  for 
he  that  taketh  lesse  than  that,  would  be  ill  able  to  pay  his 
rent,  or  to  keepe  open  his  Shop  Windowes,  neither  would 
Tobacco  houses  make  such  a  muster  as  they  doe,  and  that 
almost  in  every   .   .   .   by-corner  round  about  London. 

"  Let  us  then  reckon  thus,  7000.  halfe  Crouns  a  day, 
amounteth  justto  3 19,375  poundes  a  yeare.  Summa  totalis^ 
All  spent  in  smoake." 

And  yet  our  Shakspere,  who  seems  to  sum  up  in  his 
plays  the  whole  world  of  his  fellow-men,  and  whose  term 
of  writing  corresponds  almost  exactly  to  these  thirty  years 
during  which  his  countrymen,  from  knowing  nothing  of 
tobacco,  came  to  consume  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
pounds'  worth  each  year,  does  not  so  much  as  mention 
the  herb  or  the  practice  of  smoking. 

I  should  have  liked  to  give  some  account  of  the  more 
famous  physicians  of  this  time  in  England ;  of  "  that 
famous  Phisition,  Master  Thomas  Twyne " ;  of  Dr. 
Thomas  Linacre,  the  founder  of  the  London  College  of 
Physicians,  who  went  over  from  England  in  1484  to  Italy 
and  studied  medicine  in  Florence,  where  he  was  companion 
to  the  children  of  the  great  Lorenzo  de'  Medici.  Italy 
was  at  this  time  the  centre  of  medical  learning:  the 
learned    refugees    from     Constantinople     had    found    an 


200     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

asylum  there,  and  attendants  upon  their  lectures  were 
attracted  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  Foreign  physicians 
were  greatly  esteemed  in  England ;  and  I  find  cunning 
indications  cropping  up  here  and  there  in  contemporary 
literature  that  perhaps  they  were  sometimes  esteemed  more 
because  they  were  foreign  than  because  they  displayed  any 
superiority  over  native  doctors.  For  example,  in  an  old 
play  called  The  Marriage  of  Wit  and  Wisdom  there  is  a 
lampoon  upon  a  quack  aping  these  foreign  doctors  or  out- 
landish men,  like  this  : 

Now  you  shall  hear  how  finely  Master  Doctor 

Can  play  the  outlandish  man. 

(And  he  apes  the  foreigner) : 

Ah,  by  Got,  me  be  the  Doctor, 

Me  am  the  fine  knave,  I  tell  ye. 

Me  have  the  excellent  medicine 

For  the  blaines  and  the  blister.   .   .   . 

The  bee  have  no  so  many  herbes 

Whenout  to  suck  honey 

As  I  can  find  shifts  whereby  to  get  money. 

But  the  length  of  the  medical  course  pursued  at  this  time 
in  Italy  would  astonish  the  young  gentlemen  who  are  so 
impatient  of  a  few  months  before  they  can  enter  the  world 
as  doctors.  Dr.  Linacre  must  have  remained  fifteen  years 
in  Italy,  studying  in  Florence,  Rome,  and  Padua,  before 
he  came  back  to  England  and  began  his  career. 

I  should  also  have  liked  particularly  to  dwell  upon  the 
life  of  William  Harvey,  who  discovered  the  circulation  of 
the  blood  at  this  time,  and  who,  you  remember,  was  a  con- 
temporary of  Shakspere. 

It  was  in  1616  that  he  put  forth  his  doctrine  of  the 
circulation  of  the  blood.  Harvey  is  an  instructive  person, 
particularly  when  we  think  of  the  trouble  that  often  fell 


William  Harvey,  and  Chart  of  Circulation  of  the  Blood 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  TIME    201 

upon  him  in  consequence  of  his  discoveries.  Aubrey  re- 
ports that  he  had  heard  Harvey  say  that  "after  his  booke 
of  the  Circulation  of  the  Blood  came  out,  he  fell  mightily 
in  his  practice  and  .  .  .  'twas  believed  by  the  vulgar  he 
was  crack-brained."  What  a  curious  crisscross  of  things 
it  is  that  the  vulgar  should  believe  Harvey  crack-brained 
and  accept  as  wise  men  the  ignorant  charlatans  whom  we 
saw  them  running  after  in  Dr.  John  Hall's  book ! 

Yet  Harvey  lived  to  see  his  doctrine  established.  And 
the  metaphysician  Hobbes,  well  enough  acquainted  with 
the  vanity  of  such  success,  spoke  of  him  as  "  the  only  man 
I  know  that  conquering  envy,  hath  established  a  new 
doctrine  in  his  life-time."  People  knew  in  a  vague  sort 
of  way,  before  Harvey,  that  the  blood  moved ;  but  they 
were  utterly  ignorant  of  what  made  it  move ;  and  even  in 
Shakspere's  time  we  find  a  writer  speaking  of  the  liver  as 
the  fountain  of  the  blood  —  evidently  fancying  that,  from 
some  cause  or  other,  the  blood  spouted  out  of  the  liver  as 
a  fountain  out  of  the  ground.  Servetus  appears  to  have 
narrowly  missed  forestalling  Harvey's  Exercitatio  anato- 
mica  de  motu  cordis  et  sanguinis.  Harvey's  own  position 
against  his  antagonists  was  dignified  and  noble.  He  says 
in  one  of  his  own  works  that  scarce  a  day  has  passed  that 
he  has  not  heard  both  good  and  evil  of  his  doctrine. 
Some  with  great  disdain  opposed  him  ;  others  dispraised 
with  childish  slight  his  dissections  and  his  frogs  and  ser- 
pents ;  but  he  thinks  it  unworthy  of  a  philosopher  and  a 
searcher  of  the  truth  to  return  bad  words  for  bad  words, 
and  thinks  he  will  do  better  and  more  advised  if  with  the 
light  of  true  and  evident  observations  he  shall  wipe  away 
those  symptoms  of  incivility.  He  died  in  1657,  after  great 
gifts  to  the  College  of  Physicians. 

And  I  cannot  better  close  this  meagre  lecture  than  by 
citing  the  words  of  another  young  physician  of  this  period 


202     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

named  Harvey,  who  appears  to  have  been  altogether  a 
beautiful  soul,  and  to  have  died  lamented  at  a  very  early 
age.  This  was  Dr.  John  Harvey.  In  some  letters  of 
the  learned  Gabriel  Harvey,  the  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
and  particularly  of  Edmund  Spenser,  I  find  a  short  but 
touching  allusion  to  the  death  of  Dr.  John  Harvey,  who 
was  his  brother.  "  He  that  lived  not  to  see  nine  and 
twenty  years,  ...  in  Norfolk,"  says  Gabriel,  "...  as 
skilful  a  physician  for  his  age  as  ever  came  there.  I  .  .  . 
can  never  forget  that  sweet  voice  of  the  dying  cygnet." 
And  then  follow  the  dying  words  of  his  brother:  "O 
frater,  Christus  est  optimus  medicus^  et  mens  solus  medicus. 
Vale  Galene^  valete  humane  artes :  nihil  divinum  in  terris, 
praeter  animmn  aspirant  em  ad  coslos.  (0  brother^  Christ  is 
the  best  physician^  and  my  only  physician.  Farewell  Galen, 
farewell  human  arts  :  there  is  nothing  divine  in  the  world, 
except  the  soul  aspiring  to  the  heavens.y* 


CHAPTER   XX 


THE    METRICAL    TESTS— I 


Rime  Test  and  Run-on  and  End-stopped  Line  Test 


jND  now,  having  studied  various  con- 
ditions of  the  hfe  and  Hterature  of 
Shakspere's  day,  let  us  again  devote 
our  attention  for  a  while  to  some  con- 
siderations of  the  forms  of  his  poetry, 
and  to  tracing  from  the  poems  their 
development  along  certain  artistic 
and  spiritual  lines.  In  the  remaining 
lectures  we  shall  begin  to  apply  the  theory  of  forms 
already  developed  ^  to  the  understanding  of  that  general 
formulation  of  the  phenomena  of  life  which  we  call  Shak- 
spere's character,  just  as  we  shall  apply  the  special  doc- 
trines to  the  understanding  of  that  special  formulation  of 
the  phenomena  of  sound  which  we  call  Shakspere's  verse. 
Note  in  the  first  place  that  phenomena  of  tone-colour, 
as  we  saw  in  the  case  of  phenomena  of  pitch,  reduce 
themselves  in  the  last  analysis  to  phenomena  of  rhythm." 

^  See  The  Science  of  English  Verse.  ciently  attended  to  that  a  play  can- 
2  It  is,  by  the  way,  a  circumstance  not  ever  really  be  said  to  have 
which  I  think  has  not  been  suffi-      metre.      It  is  always  prose  measure. 


204     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

We  have  found  that  a  tone-colour  was  the  joint  product  of 
several  tones,  as,  for  instance,  the  flute  C  was 

known  ^  gg:  as  such  because  it  combined  the  upper 
partials,  j^~^  while  the  same  tone  on  the  oboe  would 
sound  ^  -^-  difi"'erently  because  the  even  tones  here 
would  be  obscured  and  the  odd  ones  relatively  more 
prominent.  But  since  this  tone  simply  represents  so 
many  vibrations,  we  may  call  it  a  250-rhythm  ;  and  this 
is  a  500-rhythm,  and  so  on  ;  and  thus  we  find  that  the 
tone-colour  is  simply  a  combination  of  a  number  of  dif- 
ferent-rated rhythms  acting  simultaneously  upon  the  ear. 

But  we  have  found  also  that  the  principle  of  Opposi- 
tion is  at  the  bottom  of  all  rhythm.  Since,  then,  tone- 
colour  analyses  into  rhythm,  and  rhythm  into  Opposition, 
we  may  strike  out  the  intermediate  term  in  our  minds  and 
regard  tone-colour  —  as  we  have  found  reason  to  regard 
tune,  and  rhythm  proper  —  as  another  phase  of  the  great 
organising  principle  of  Opposition. 

And  here  we  may  add  the  second  of  our  two  contri- 
butions, by  considering  the  curious  minuteness  with  which 
we  find  this  principle  flowering  out  into  the  most  unex- 
pected efi^ects  in  verse. 

and     measured     rhythmically,    not  tenance  in  silence,  or  doing  any  of 

metrically.      For  let  us  examine  by  those  hundred  things  that  constitute 

the  absolutely   accurate    method  of  the  actor's  part  while  the  audience 

musical  notation  what  is  meant  by  is    looking   at    him,    not    listening) 

a  **  pause"  as  Mr.  Furnivall,  Mr.  almost  destroy  the  metrical  charac- 

Ellis,    Mr.    Fleay,    etc.,    use   that  ter  of  dramatic  blank  verse.      Our 

word.      It   is  a   rest  in  music;   the  blank  verse  is  not  blank  verse,  that 

interposition    of    it    as    they    wish  is,  not  5's,  at  ail — as  may  be  easily 

wholly  changes  the  metre  ;  in  fact,  seen  by  dividing  up  the  verse  prop- 

thc  interposition  of  it  as  demanded  eriy  in  musical  notation   for  rests, 

by  the  exigences  of  dramatic  busi-  etc.      (See    The   Science  of  Etiglish 

ness  (the  long  pause  while  one  is  ^erse.) 
making  eyes,  or  adjusting  the  coun- 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS 


205 


For  example,  collate,  in  this  view,  two  singularly  dif- 
fering preferences  of  the  ear  as  between  the  artistic  manner 
of  using  vowel-colours  and  the  artistic  manner  of  using 
consonant-colours  in  English  verse.  Here,  for  example,  is 
a  line  from  Tom  Hood's  poem  written  in  illustration  of 
his  comical  "  Plan  for  Writing  Blank  Verse  in  Rhyme." 
The  plan  was  for  making  the  three  last  words  of  each  line 
rime  with  each  other,  though  no  two  lines  rimed  together  — 
which  Hood,  writing  in  the  person  of  a  needy  poetaster, 
trumpeted  as  a  discovery  that  placed  him  alongside  of 
Newton,  Harvey,  and  Columbus.     The  poem  begins  : 

Even  is  come,  and  from  the  dark  park,  hark, 
The  signal  of  the  setting  sun  —  one  gun  ! 

and  ends  : 

While  ribbons  flourish  and  a  stout  shout  out 

That  upward  goes  shows  Rose  knows  those  bow's  woes. 

Now  you  remember  that,  in  discussing  the  colours  of  verse, 
one  of  the  first  matters  presented  to  you  was  the  proper 
variation  of  vowel-colours  in  each  line,  so  that  not  more 
than  two  Hke  colours  should  be  consecutive,  and  so  on  — 
a  variation  which,  although  scarcely  ever  thought  of  by  the 
lay  reader,  is  absolutely  vital  to  the  success  of  any  work  in 
verse.  Here  in  Hood's  poem  the  principle  is  even  more 
strongly  illustrated,  you  see,  by  showing  that  an  irresis- 
tibly comic  effect  is  produced  by  what  we  may  call  — using 
Professor  Sylvester's  happy  term  in  a  somewhat  different 
sense  —  these  vowel-syzygies.  In  short,  we  may  formulate 
the  principle  that  our  ear  does  not  like  several  identical  vowel- 
colours  in  succession. 

But  how  curious  this  seems  when  we  come  to  collate 


2o6     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

it  with  the  fact  that  our  ear  does  like  several  consonant- 
colours  in  succession  ! 

For  example,  in  Shakspere's  line, 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments, 

we  found  that  there  were  actually  ten  /-colours  and  six 
»2-colours,  and  that  these  were  very  graciously  recognised 
and  coordinated  by  the  ear.  Or,  again,  in  that  very  justly 
famous  line  of  Tennyson's  which  my  friend  Dr.  William 
Hand  Browne  has  recalled  to  me  as  a  beautiful  illustration 
of  consonant-colours  in  artistic  syzygy. 

The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmur  of  innumerable  bees, 

besides  the  very  striking  syzygy  of  m'^^  there  are  other 
predominances  of  consonant-colour  which  show  in  the 
most  striking  manner  how  the  ear  in  its  reception  of  con- 
sonant-colours is  delighted  with  the  very  resemblances  which 
it  cannot  tolerate  in  vowel-colours.  Now  from  these  two 
facts  the  inference  is  clear  that  in  verse  there  are  two 
precisely  opposite  functions  of  vowels  and  consonants, 
when  coordinated  as  syzygetic  tone-colours  —  besides,  of 
course,  all  the  other  functions  discharged  by  them  when 
coordinated  with  reference  to  other  particulars  :  the  vowel- 
colours  in  the  line  must  differ,  the  consonant-colours 
must  agree,  to  give  the  ear  its  pleasure.  In  other 
words,  the  vowel-colours  represent  the  chaos  element,  the 
consonant-colours  the  form  element,  in  our  opposition 
list :  the  vowel-colours  represent  accident,  the  consonant- 
colours  law. 

We  can  here  advance  to  the  principle  that  this  Oppo- 
sition, in  larger  applications,  is  the  life  of  verse^  as  we  shall 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  207 

hereafter  more  fully  find  :  and  so  in  verse,  as  in  actual 
life,  prevail  these  great  contradictions  which  I  have  here 
set  down  as  a  partial  list  of  limiting  forms  of  thought. 
How  wonderfully  Shakspere  knew  and  felt  all  this,  just  as 
well  in  his  life  as  in  his  verse,  we  shall,  I  hope,  come  to  see 
in  these  remaining  lectures  when  we  analyse  his  verse  in 
the  light  of  the  Metrical  Tests  which  are  now  to  be  ex- 
plained. Meantime,  here  is  a  glimpse  of  his  perception 
of  it,  which  occurs  in  All's  JV ell  that  Ends  Well.,  Act  IV, 
Scene  III,  where  the  First  Lord  says  : 

"  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and 
ill  together :  our  virtues  would  be  proud,  if  our  faults 
whipt  them  not ;  and  our  crimes  would  despair,  if  they 
were  not  cherished  by  our  virtues." 

In  coming  now  to  apply  the  theory  of  verse,  which 
has  been  already  developed,  to  the  examination  of  the 
Metrical  Tests,  please  carefully  observe  that  we  are 
arriving  at  the  convergence  of  the  two  distinct  trains  of 
study  which  we  have  been  carrying  on,  to  wit :  the  tech- 
nical train,  resulting  in  the  physical  theory  of  verse,  which 
has  given  us  the  laws  of  poetic  form  in  special ;  and  the 
larger  train,  which  has  resulted  in  showing  us  at  least  some 
of  the  laws  of  form  in  general  —  and  particularly  of  that 
kind  of  form  in  the  affairs  of  behaviour  which  we  call 
character.  Now  these  Metrical  Tests,  which  are  to  be 
discussed  in  this  lecture  and  the  next,  have  for  their  direct 
object  the  settling  of  the  dates  of  Shakspere's  plays.  At 
first  thought  this  does  not  seem  to  be  a  very  important 
matter ;  we  associate  dates  with  antiquaries  and  dry-as- 
dusts,  and  many  a  man  may  feel  inclined  to  say.  Why 
potter  about  your  dates  and  chronologies?  If  the  plays 
are  good,  they  are  good,  whether  they  were  written  in 
1590  or  in  1610. 

But  it   so    happens    that    here   a  whole   view   of  the 


2o8     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

greatest  mind  which  the  human  race  has  yet  evolved  hangs 
essentially  upon  dates :  it  so  happens  that  the  entire 
process  of  Shakspere's  growth  as  man  and  artist  comes 
blazing  out  upon  us  in  clear  and  —  to  me,  I  confess  — 
startling  sequence  the  instant  we  admit  the  chronology  of 
his  plays  to  be  presently  given.  How  this  comes  about  — 
how  it  befalls  that  our  study  of  Metrical  Tests,  which  we 
begin  as  a  mere  antiquarian  research  into  dates,  straight- 
way transforms  itself  into  a  probe  and  touchstone  of 
Shakspere's  whole  development  as  a  moral  and  artistic 
being  —  will  come  out  clearly  from  a  very  brief  considera- 
tion of  the  diagram  which  is  here  shown. 


BRIGHT  PERIOD 

DARK  PERIOD 

HEAVENLY  PERIOD 

Carelessness 

Bitterness 

Forgiveness 

1590-1601 

1601-1608 

1608-1613 

Love's  Labour's  Lost 

(1590) 

All's  Well       (?i6oi-2) 

Pericles                (1608) 

Comedy  of  Errors 

(1591) 

Julius  CKsar        (1601) 

Cymbeline            (1609) 

Romeo  and  Juliet 

(?i59i) 

Hamlet                 (1602) 

Tempest                (1610) 

( 

? I 596-7) 

Measure  for  M.   (1603) 

Winter's  T.     (1610-I1) 

2  and  3  Henry  VI 

(1591-2) 

Troilus  and  C.    (?l6o3) 

Henry  VIII    (1612-13) 

Two  Gentlemen  of  V. 

(1592-3) 

(Rev.  ?i6o7) 

Richard  III 

(1593) 

Othello                  (1604) 

Midsummer  N.  D. 

(1593-4) 

Lear                      (1605) 

Richard  II 

(1594) 

Macbeth                (1606) 

King  John 

(1595) 

Antony  and  C.     (1607) 

Merchant  of  Venice 

(1596) 

TimonofA.      (1607-8) 

I  and  2  Henry  IV 

(1597-8) 

Coriolanus            (1608) 

Taming  of  the  Shrew 

(?i597) 

Merry  Wives  of  W. 

(?i598) 

Much  Ado  About  N. 

(1598) 

Henry  V 

(1599) 

As  You  Like  It 

(1599) 

Twelfth  Night 

( 1 600-1) 

Omitting   Titus  Andronicus,  i  Henry  VI,  and    T~vo  Noble  Kinsmen,  in  which 
Shakspere's  part  is  either  unfledged  or  doubtful. 

Reserving  till  a  later  lecture   the  actual   proof  of  these 
dates,  and  merely  requesting  you  for  the  present  to  accept 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  209 

this  chronological  scheme  as  a  working  hypothesis  if  you 
should  wish  to  be  cautious,  I  ask  you  now  only  to  con- 
sider the  importance  which  our  Metrical  Tests  would  as- 
sume if  they  should  be  found  upon  due  examination  to 
confirm,  by  cumulative  evidence  upon  evidence,  the  ar- 
rangement here  given.  As  you  run  your  eye  along  this 
list,  and  slowly  recall  and  compare  the  main  motives  of 
plot  after  plot,  what  surprising  revelations  of  Shakspere's 
inward  development  rise  up  out  of  the  mere  sequence 
thus  displayed,  and  take  form  before  the  mind!  One 
almost  feels  like  shrinking  back  —  as  if  one  had  suddenly 
opened  the  door  of  Shakspere's  room  while  he  was  saying 
his  prayers. 

And,  to  put  this  development  clearly  before  you, 
allow  me  to  recall  in  a  flying  way  the  main  points  sug- 
gested by  this  chronological  scheme  and  to  be  confirmed 
or  not  by  the  Metrical  Tests. 

Shakspere  began  writing  about  the  year  1588,  when  he 
was  twenty-four  years  of  age,  and  ceased  about  161 2  or 
1 6 13,  when  he  was  nearly  fifty.  This  term  of  his  author- 
ship naturally,  even  necessarily,  divides  itself  into  three 
periods,  each  of  which  includes,  I  think,  a  very  strikingly 
marked  phase  of  growth.  The  first  period  begins  about 
1590  and  ends  about  1601  ;  the  second  begins  about 
1602  and  ends  in  1608  ;  the  third  begins  in  1608  and 
ends  in  16 13.  The  common  characteristics  among  the 
plays  in  each  of  these  groups  point  in  the  most  unequivo- 
cal manner  to  the  workings  of  Shakspere's  spirit. 

Here,  in  the  first  —  what  I  have  called  the  Bright  or 
Carelessness  —  period,  you  perceive  the  vivacious  ima- 
gination of  the  youth  —  who  has  but  lately  flown  out  of 
the  quiet  Warwickshire  fields  up  into  the  gay  life  of  Lon- 
don —  rioting  about  the  contemporary  world  and  down 
through  the  ages  like  a  young  swallow  in  the  early  morn- 


2IO     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

ing,  now  flitting  his  wing  in  the  water, —  and  Hke  as  not 
muddy  water, —  now  saihng  over  the  meadow-grass,  now 
sweeping  through  the  upper  heights  of  heaven.  Notice 
first  that  all  the  comedies  belong  to  this  period.  Love  s 
Labour  s  Losiy  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona^Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  J  Merchant  of -Venice^  As  Tou  Like  It,  'Twelfth 
Night  — this  debonair  and  immortal  set  of  plays  comes 
in  the  first  ten  years  of  Shakspere's  life  as  a  writer  in 
London. 

There  is  but  one  strict  tragedy, —  Romeo  and  Juliet, — 
and  here  the  real  reason  of  being  is  not  the  tragic  death  of 
the  lovers,  but  their  young  love,  which  is  depicted  with  the 
unspeakable  fire  and  freshness  of  a  young  imagination. 
Romeo  and  Juliet  is  simply  a  bridegroom's  passionate  song, 
set  ofi^with  a  funeral-hymn  for  a  foil. 

Besides  these  you  notice  the  purely  historical  plays. 
Now  these  do  not  seize  upon  some  one  awful  passion  or 
crime,  like  Othello  or  Lear  or  Macbeth  or  Hamlet,  but  they 
are  written  to  comply  with  the  popular  and  patriotic  de- 
mand for  this  kind  of  play, —  written  more  from  without 
than  from  within, —  and  they  deal  with  their  subjects  in  what 
seems  to  me  a  distinctly  lighter  and  less  personal  manner 
than  later  plays  —  the  manner  of  a  young  man  who  has 
not  yet  been  brought  into  any  actual  conflict  or  dreadful 
grind  with  the  forces  of  nature  and  of  accident  and  of  pas- 
sion and  of  the  twist  of  life,  in  his  own  personal  relations 
with  his  fellow-men.  In  the  2  and  j  Henry  VI,  and  in 
Richard  III 'WQ.  behold  the  influence  of  Marlowe's  powerful 
historical  plays  on  our  poet ;  he  is  writing  more  from  Mar- 
lowe than  from  Shakspere.  In  Richard  II  and  King  John 
we  find  him  taking  two  weak  and  unlovely  kings  for  title 
heroes,  and  doing  much  work  as  a  playwright.  In  /  and  2 
Henry  IV  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  old  Jack  FalstafF;  and 


:? 


Mr.WTLLIAM 

BHTAKESPEARES 

COMEDIES, 
HISTORIES,    & 
TRAGEDIES. 


Puhlillied  accoiilia^  to  the  True  Originall  Copies. 


i'l  mted by  Ifaac  laggard, and  Ed.  Blount,    i  6i  \ 


ff^su-^ac^ 


Title-page  of  First  Folio 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  211 

these  plays,  although  ranging  among  the  historical  series 
by  virtue  of  their  titles,  really  should  go  among  the  come- 
dies in  right  of  those  of  their  dramatis  personam,  who  have 
retained  most  hold  upon  the  world's  regard.  In  Henry  V 
we  find  some  show  of  a  serious  thought.  The  wild  young 
Prince  Hal,  who  even  in  his  revels  has  always  impressed 
us  as  being  among  them,  not  of  them, —  a  sort  of  amateur 
roisterer,  not  a  professional  light-o'-wit  like  FalstafF  and 
his  crew, —  has  discovered,  on  the  death  of  his  father,  that 
he  too  has  actual  personal  relations  with  life  :  the  meaning 
of  duty,  of  responsibility,  of  the  fact  of  one's  fellow-men, 
dawns  upon  him  ;  and  he  makes  a  magnificent  king  and 
manful  warrior  whom  Shakspere  paints  in  glory.  Whether 
Prince  Hal's  reformation  means  that  Shakspere  is  now 
awaking,  amid  that  gay  life  which  flutters  about  in  the 
comedies  of  this  period,  to  some  graver  and  deeper  neces- 
sities of  life,  is  a  question.  Something  is  thrusting  him  into 
larger  fields  of  thought.  And  this  much  is  clear :  that  it 
must  be  something  very  terrible,  very  profoundly  shaking 
his  heart.  For  he  has  had  griefs  before  now  which  do  not 
seem  to  have  so  stirred  him.  His  old  father,  John  Shak- 
spere, from  the  state  of  a  successful  glove-maker  and  pros- 
perous burgess  of  Stratford,  has  some  time  ago  fallen  into 
money  troubles ;  insomuch  that  when  a  commission  is 
appointed  in  1592  to  ascertain  whether  the  Warwickshire 
people  approve  themselves  good  followers  of  the  estab- 
lished religion  by  going  to  church  at  least  once  a  month, 
according  to  the  orthodox  regulation,  it  is  found  that  John 
Shakspere  does  not  attend,  and  the  reason  assigned  in  the 
report  of  the  commission  is  that  he  is  afraid  of  being 
arrested  for  debt.  Moreover,  in  addition  to  such  evi- 
dences that  things  do  not  go  on  well  down  in  Stratford, 
in    1596    William    Shakspere's    only  son,  Hamnet,  dies. 


212     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

But  yet,  as  we  see  by  looking  at  the  dates  of  these  works, 
the  hilarious  spirit  of  the  man  continues  to  turn  out 
comedy  after  comedy,  and  we  find  Much  Ado  About  Nothings 
As  You  Like  It,  Twelfth  Night,  and  the  like,  all  writ- 
ten after  his  son  Hamnet's  death.  So,  I  say,  if  the  mis- 
fortunes of  his  father  and  the  death  of  his  son  do  not 
sober  his  spirit,  it  must  needs  be  that  some  prodigious 
wrench  of  his  soul  comes  from  some  hand  or  other  about 
this  time. 

At  any  rate,  after  this  brimming  and  crystal  comedy  of 
Twelfth  Night  in  1601,  here  come  suddenly  two  bloody 
tragedies  —  Julius  desar  and  Hamlet  —  in  the  same  and 
following  years.  Brutus  and  Hamlet,  these  are  the  two 
heartbreaking  characters  which  Shakspere  draws  at  this 
time  :  both  men  of  strength  and  parts,  yet  not  of  quite 
strength  and  parts  enough  for  the  need  of  the  moment ; 
both  of  them  born  into  a  time  out  of  joint,  and  both  — 
instead  of  exultantly  accepting  the  responsibility  which  is 
thrown  upon  them  of  reforming  evil  —  shirking  the  duty 
and  crying,  O  cursed  spite,  'That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it 
right!  Following  upon  these,  you  see,  in  the  next  year 
comes  Measure  for  Measure,  that  wretched  slough  of  a 
play.  Never  did  the  world  hear  a  more  dismal  business 
than  this  plot  —  all  murky  with  shame  and  weakness  and 
brutality  and  low  suffering  and  death  and  dark  questions, 
so  that  the  strong  and  saintly  Isabella  scarcely  relieves  its 
oppressive  atmosphere.  Then  we  have  the  inconceivable 
treachery  of  the  false-hearted  Cressid  ;  and  here  it  is  worst 
of  all  to  find  our  sweet  Shakspere  preaching  worldly  wis- 
dom and  Poor  Richard  maxims.  Closely  following  these 
come  the  enormous  single-passion  tragedies :  Othello 
murders  his  wife  for  a  causeless  jealousy;  Lear  and  his 
daughters  and  best  friends  all  die  in  a  heap,  all  the  deaths 
being  brought  on  by  one  unfortunate  blunder  of  a  silly  old 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  213 

man  ;  Macbeth  murders  sleep  and  loyalty  and  his  good 
King,  all  at  a  stroke,  for  ambition  ;  Antony  betrays  wife 
and  country  for  lust ;  Coriolanus  turns  outlaw  for  re- 
venge ;  and  Timon  twists  the  neck  of  the  world  for 
misanthropy.  These  plays  are  like  a  mortal  outcry  of 
grief.  The  poor  master  seems  to  be  wondering,  in  all 
this  melodious  amazement,  if  the  world  is  really  going  to 
be  too  hard  for  him,  as  it  was  for  Hamlet  and  Brutus 
and  Timon.  I  seem  to  find  the  taste  of  this  bitter  period 
in  many  of  the  sonnets,  notably  in  several  from  Sonnet 
LXVI  to  Sonnet  CXII. 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry, 

wails  the  first  of  these  piteous  sonnets. 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell, 

begins  the  seventy-first. 

O,  lest  the  world  should  task  you  to  recite 
What  merit  lived  in  me,  that  you  should  love 
After  my  death, — dear  love,  forget  me  quite. 
For  you  in  me  can  nothing  worthy  prove 
Unless  you  would  devise  some  virtuous  lie, 

says  the  seventy-second. 

Alas,  'tis  true  [says  the  one   hundred   and   tenth]  1   have 

gone  here  and  there. 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 
Gor'd  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear, 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new ; 


214     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely. 

Again,  in  the  next  sonnet,  he  continues  this  strain  : 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide. 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand  : 
Pity  me  then  and  wish  I  were  renew'd. 

While  in  Sonnet  XC  we  have  this  lamentable  outbreak : 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt ;  if  ever,  now; 

Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross. 

Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow. 

And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after-loss : 

Ah,  do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  'scap'd  this  sorrow. 

Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquered  woe  ; 

Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow, 

To  linger  out  a  purpos'd  overthrow. 

If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last, 

When  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite, 

But  in  the  onset  come  :   so  shall  I  taste 

At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might ; 

And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe, 
Compar'd  with  loss  of  thee  will  not  seem  so. 

But,  as  suddenly  as  he  entered  it,  our  strong  man  emerges 
from  this  Dark  Period  into  one  which,  without  wishing  to 
be  fanciful,  I  have  found  no  other  name  for  than  the 
Heavenly  Period.  He  is,  as  his  sonnet  says,  renewed. 
Instead  of  the  bleak  storms  of  the  Hamlet  and  Macbeth 
time,  now  we  have  the  great  and  beautiful  calm  of  a  spirit 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  215 

which,  after  having  seen  and  shared  in  all  the  crime  and 
all  the  grief  of  the  world,  has  at  length  attained  God  out 
of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain.  If  you  con- 
template this  group  of  plays  which  I  have  here  placed  in 
the  last  period,  you  find  them  all  hinging  upon  the  sweet 
that  follows  the  bitter :  Pericles^  Cymbeline,  Tempest,  Win- 
ter s  "Tale,  Henry  VIII,  all  these,  in  great  and  noble  mu- 
sic, breathe  of  new  love  after  estrangement,  of  the  recovery 
of  long-lost  children,  of  the  kissing  of  wives  thought  dead, 
of  reconciliation,  of  new  births  of  old  happiness  —  most  of 
all,  of  sweeping  magnanimity,  of  heavenly  forgiveness.  If 
we  listen  to  that  epilogue  of  'The  Tempest,  we  cannot  help 
believing  that  it  is  the  old  poet  Shakspere  himself  who 
is  writing  his  last  play,  or  believes  he  is,  and  who,  in  the 
guise  of  Prospero,  is  laying  down  the  mantle  of  his  magic 
and  preparing  to  depart  from  the  lonesome  island  of  this 
world  into  the  Strange  Country.  Now,  he  says  in  this 
epilogue  which  is  spoken  by  Prospero,  Now  my  charms 
are  all  overthrown.  And  what  strength  I  have  s  mine  own. 
Which  is  most  faint ;  and  you  cannot  forget  the  beautiful 
and  passionate  fervour  of  his  closing  appeal : 

As  you  from  crimes  would  pardoned  be, 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 

And  finally  we  seem  to  discover  the  recollection  of  this 
great  struggle,  and  of  his  final  triumphant  emergence  from 
it  into  the  calm  of  assured  victory,  in  many  of  his  sonnets. 
It  seems  most  probable  that  after  Shakspere's  eventful 
London  career  he  went  back  to  Stratford  about  161 2,  or  a 
little  before,  and  quietly  took  up  the  life  of  a  simple  citi- 
zen with  wife,  children,  grandchild,  and  friends,  and  so 
lived  there  until  his  death.  The  calm  content  which  could 
enable  him  to  do  this  doubtless  came  into  his  spirit  con- 


2i6     SHAKSPERE  AND   HIS    FORERUNNERS 

temporaneously  with  all  these  plays  of  sweetness  and  for- 
giveness. 

1  take  great  pleasure  in  contemplating  what  seems  to 
be  the  only  genuine  relic  of  Shakspere  preserved  at  Strat- 
ford, and  which  brings  vividly  to  our  eyes  this  period  of 
peaceful  reunion  with  his  wife  and  of  tranquil  life  in  the 
tranquil  Warwick  country.  The  relic  I  speak  of  is  a 
round  piece  of  glass  some  four  or  five  inches  in  diameter 
on  which  are  painted  the  letters  W  and  A  —  for  William 
and  Anne  —  under  the  common  letter  S,  for  Shakspere^ 
with  the  date  1615,  as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  memorial  of  the 
enclosure  of  the  life  of  this  once  parted  William  and  Anne 
in  a  final  circle  of  harmony,  reconciliation,  and  pardon. 

Here,  then,  we  have  the  ground-plan  of  Shakspere's 
career,  and  our  research  is  now  to  convince  us  not  only 
that  this  is  true  but  that  this  advance  in  moral  scope  is 
accompanied  by  —  or,  better,  is  only  another  phase  of —  a 
corresponding  advance  in  Shakspere's  technic  as  a  verse- 
artist. 

The  Metrical  Tests  which  I  am  to  bring  before  you  are 
five  in  number :  the  Rime  Test,  the  Run-on  and  End- 
stopped  Line  Test,  the  Weak-ending  Test,  the  Double- 
ending  Test,  and  the  Rhythmic  Accent  Test.  The  first 
of  these  in  the  historic  order  was  the  rime  test,  and  I  may 
therefore  properly  begin  with  some  account  of  that. 

It  is  just  about  a  hundred  years  ago  since  Malone  — 
whose  name  you  all  recognise  as  that  of  one  of  the  most 
acute  editors  of  Shakspere  —  remarked,  in  the  course  of 
certain  comments  on  the  play  of  Love  s  Labour  s  Lost^  that 
rimes  were  much  more  frequent  in  those  of  Shakspere's 
plays  which  seemed  to  belong  to  the  early  portion  of  his 
authorial  career  than  in  those  of  the  later  portion  ;  and  he 
concluded  his  remark  by  observing :  "  Whenever,  of  two 
early  pieces,  it  is  doubtful   which   preceded   the   other,  I 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  217 

am  disposed  to  believe  (other  proofs  being  wanting) 
that  play  in  which  the  greater  number  of  rhymes  is 
found,  to  have  been  first  composed."  But  this  obser- 
vation of  Malone's  remained  in  the  condition  which  I 
have  heretofore  described  as  inexact  criticism  for  a  long 
time.  In  the  year  1874  a  paper  by  the  Rev.  F.  G.  Fleay 
was  read  before  the  New  Shakspere  Society,  in  which  that 
scholar  took  up  Malone's  idea  and  carried  what  he  called 
Malone's  "  qualitative  analysis  "  to  the  far  more  accurate 
plane  of  quantitative  analysis.  In  other  words,  Mr.  Fleay 
went  patiently  to  work  and  counted  the  actual  number  of 
rimes  in  Shakspere's  plays  :  and  having  thus  arrived  at  a 
basis  for  exact  conclusions,  he  set  down  the  plays  in  the 
order  of  the  relative  frequency  of  their  rimes,  and  boldly 
claimed  that  this  tabulation  must  represent  the  actual  order 
in  which  those  plays  were  written  by  Shakspere,  upon  the 
theory  that  Shakspere  gradually  more  and  more  disused 
the  effect  of  rime  as  he  grew  older.  In  Mr.  Fleay 's 
Table  (pages  218,  219),  Love's  Labour  s  Lost  shows  1,082 
rimes  out  of  a  total  of  2,789  lines,  and  so  on. 

Of  course  it  was  to  be  expected  that  in  announcing 
a  theory  so  novel  as  to  propose  reducing  a  whole  artistic 
career  to  numbers  and  showing  it  up  in  terms  of  2,  4,  and 
6,  the  theorist  went  too  far.  Without  now  going  into  the 
details  of  the  matter,  we  may  fairly  consider  ourselves 
entitled  to  say,  as  summing  up  the  present  stage  of  the 
rime  test,  that  upon  applying  all  the  numerous  other  evi- 
dences and  tests  which  scholarship  has  accumulated  there 
seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  a  steady  decrease  in  the  number 
of  rimes  is  shown,  as  between  Shakspere's  early  plays  and 
his  later  'ones,  so  that  there  are,  for  instance,  in  general, 
many  less  rimes  in  the  plays  of  the  second  period  than  in 
those  of  the  first,  and  many  less  in  those  of  the  third  period 
than  in  those  of  the  second. 


2i8     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

METRICAL  TABLE  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  PLAYS. 


1 

O  "i 

o 

X 

V. 

< 

u 
-  < 

O 

8 

J  o 
o  z 

U 
h 
< 
Z 
K 
III 

H 
&1 
Z 

z 

o 

c/) 

a. 

12) 

O 
u 
o 

Q 

u 
< 

bl 

to 
u 

K 

< 

u 

< 

s 

III 

3 

•< 

w 

< 

« 

CO 

■* 

Love's  L.  Lost. 
Midsum.  N.  D. 
Com.  of  Errors. 
Rom.  and  Jul. 
Richard  II. 


Richard  III. 
King  John. 

1  Henry  IV. 

2  Henry  IV. 

Henry  V. 


T.  Gent,  of  V. 
Mer.  of  Ven. 
Twelf.  Night. 
As  you  Like  it. 
Merry  Wives. 
Much  Ado,  &c. 


All's  Well. 
Meas.  for  Me. 


Troylus  and  C. 

Macbeth. 

Cymbeline. 

Hamlet. 

Othello. 

King  Lear. 


Julius  Caesar. 
Coriolanus. 
Antony  and  C. 
Tempest. 
Winter's  Tale. 


I. 

PLAYS  OF  FIRST 

(RIMING) 

PERIOD. 

2789 

1086 

579 

1028 

54 

32 

7 

236 

71 

194 

4 

12 

13 

— 

2251 

441 

878 

731 

138 

63 

29 

i.5» 

.S 

3 

— 

1770 

240 

1150 

380 

— 

— 

137 

04 

— 

109 

^ 

8 

q 

— 

3002 

405 

2111 

486 

— 

— 

118 

62 

28 

10 

20 

lb 

',''■ 

2644 

— 

2107 

537 

— 

— 

148 

12 

— 

— 

n 

17 

26 

22 

I] 

.      HISTORIES 

OF 

SECOND  PERIOD. 

3599 

55? 

3374 

170 

— 

— 

570   — 

— 

— 

20 

39 

13 

23 

2553 

— 

2403 

150 

— 

— 

54    12 

— 

— 

I 

9 

4 

4 

3170 

1464 

1622 

84 

— 

— 

60      4 

-     - 

16 

17 

16 

16 

3437 

i860 

T417 

74 

7 

15 

203    Pistol  64 1.] 

3 

13 

7 

— 

3320 

1531 

1678 

lOI 

2 

8 

Pist. 
^9'  .571.]'^ 

— 

2 

13 

10 

4 

III.     COMEDIES 

OF 

SECOND  PERIOD 

2060 

409 

1510 

116 

— 

15 

203 

16 

— 

18 

8 

IS 

32 

8 

2705 

673 

1896 

93 

34 

9 

297 

4 

— 

4 

8 

16 

22 

2 

2684 

1741 

7t>3 

120 

— 

60 

152 

— 

— 

— 

8 

21 

23 

5 

2904 

1681 

925 

71 

130 

97 

211 

10 

— 

2 

3 

10 

33 

I 

3018 

2703 

227 

69 

19 

32 

[Pistol  39  1.] 

3 

3 

— 

2823 

2106 

643 

40 

18 

16 

129 

22 

— 

2 

7 

15 

4 

IV. 


2981  I  1453  I  1234 
2809  I  1134  I  1574 


3423 

1186 

2025 

196 

— 

16 

441 

'993 

158 

1588 

118 

129 

— 

3901 

3448 

638 

2585 

107 

— 

32 

726 

3924 

1208 

2490 

81 

— 

60 

S08 

3324 

541 

2672 

86 

— 

25 

646 

3298 

903 

2238 

74 

— 

«3 

567 

726  [84!.  in  vision] 
"  [861.  in  play] 


VI.     PLAYS  OF  FOURTH   PERIOD. 


10 

46 

62 

13 

8 

28 

43 

8 

8 

15 

31 

18 

20 

53 

55 

II 

19 

66 

71 

13 

18 

34 

lib 

22 

2440 

165 

2241 

34 

— 

— 

369    —     — 

— 

14 

31 

55 

6 

3392 

829 

2521 

42 

— 

— 

708    —     — 

— 

3 

33 

76 

19 

3964 

255 

2761 

42 

— 

6 

613    -     - 

— 

14 

38 

84 

31 

2068 

458 

1458 

2 

— 

96 

4761  54l.inmasq.] 

2 

16 

47 

5 

2758 

844 

1825 

0 

— 

57 

639I32I.  inch 

or.] 

8 

14 

19 

13 

6 
33? 


16 
2 

13 
6 

23 


5 
14 
10 

5 
3 

4 


COMEDIES  OF  THIRD  PERIOD. 

280  I  2  I  12  I  223!  8  I  14  I  —  I  7  I  31  I  31  I  5  I  14 
73  I  22  I  6  I  338)  —  I  —  I  —  I  10  I  29  1  66  I  5  I  47 

V.     TRAGEDIES  OF  THIRD  PERIOD. 


43 
18 

42 
47 
78 

50 


16 
42 
61 
II 
16 


VII.      PLAYS  IN  V^^HICH  SHAKSPERE  WAS  NOT  SOLE  AUTHOR. 

Henry  VIII. 
Two  Noble  K. 
Pericles. 
Timon  of  A. 


2754 

67? 

2613 

16 

— 

12 

"95 

2734 
2386 

2358 

179 

418 

59° 

2468 
1436 
1560 

54 
225 
184 

18 

33 

1079 

I20 
257 

[46I.  inProl. 

2 

iq 

18 

3 

32 

&  Epilogue  . 

9 

19 

46 

17 

S 

[222l.Gower  . 

'7 

49 

59 

2b 

18 

-  1  -1- 

15 

28 

54 

30 

37 

VIII.      FIRST  SKETCHES  IN  EARLY  QUARTOS. 


Rom.  and  Jul. 
Hamlet. 
Henry  V. 
Merry  Wives. 


T.  of  Shrew. 
Titus  Andron. 

1  Henry  VI. 

2  Henry  VI. 

3  Henry  VI. 
Contention. 
True  Tragedy. 


2066 
2068 
1672 

1395 


261 

509 

898 

1207 


1451 
1462 

774 
148 


354 
54 
30 
40 


92!  28  I  —  I  — 

43  —  209  [36 1.  in  play] 

38  [fairies]  19'  — 


7 

26 

30 

21 

92 

13 

45 

7b 

37 

30 

I 

25 

35 

3' 

15 

I 

5 

4 

IX. 

DOUBTFUL 

PLAYS 

. 

2671 

S16 

I97I 

169 

15 

— 

260!  — 

— 

49 

4 

18 

22 

23 

5 

2525 

43 

2338 

144 

— 

— 

154   — 

— 

— 

4 

8 

9 

9 

12 

2693 

_ 

2379 

314 

— 

— 

140  — 

— 

— 

5 

S 

4 

7 

12 

3032 

448 

2562 

122 

— 

— 

255!  — 

— 

— 

8 

25 

15 

21 

12 

2904 

— 

2749 

155 

— 

— 

346  - 

— 

— 

13 

II 

14 

II 

7 

1952 

381 

I57I 

44 

— 

54    — 

— 

— 

14 

16 

32 

44 

2101 

■"" 

2035 

66 

~*" 

148    — 

— 

— 

14 

21 

29 

38 

34 

FR 

OM  D 

R.    F 

LEA 

y's  pap 

ER   I 

N   T 

HE  J 

'RO( 

:eed 

ING 

S 

THE    METRICAL   TESTS 


219 


TABLE  OF  RATIOS  OF  RIME-LINES 

IN  RIME-SCENES  TO  BLANK-VERSE  LINES  IN  EACH   PLAY. 

(first  approximation.) 
comedies.  histories  and  tragedies. 

First  period. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost  .6 

Mid.  Night's  Dream 
Comedy  of  Errors 


1st  Pt  of  2  Gent,  of  Ver. 
1st  Plot  of  Twelfth  Night 


Merchant  of  Venice 
Much  Ado,  &c. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 
As  You  Like  It 

CoTipln.  of  1 2th  Night.  Prose. 
Com.  of  Tam.  of  the  Shrew  * 

All's  Well,  &c.   (rewrit.  ) 
Measure  for  Measure 


I 

Richard  II. 

4 

3 

Romeo  and  Juliet 

&  Cress. 

4-3 

7 

1st  Plot  of  Troy. 

8.4 

7-5 

2nd  do.          do. 

n-6 

Second  period. 

Richard  III. 

* 

16 

John 

16 

21 

i  I  Henry  IV. 

19 

22 

\  2  Henry  IV. 

19 

19 

(  Henry  V. 

19 

Third  period. 


22 

Julius  Cassar 

* 

22 

'  Hamlet 

about  •^o 

Othello 

)) 

30 

1 

Lear 

>> 

30 

Macbeth .? 

>> 

* 

Cymbeline 

>> 

30 

i  Part  of  Pericles 

I  Part  of  Timon  of  A. 

3* 

23 

Fourth  period. 

1  Compln.  of  Troyl.  and  Cres. 

54-5 

1  Coriolanus 

60 

Julius  Caesar  ? 

* 

Antony  and  Cleopatra 

66 

Fifth  period. 

729      (  Part  of  Two  N.   Kinsmen 

281 

infinity    ' 

Part  of  Henry  VIII. 

infinity 

(  Tempest 

I  Winter's  Tale 


The  above  table  is  corrected  up  to  the  date  of  my  present  investigations  (May  17,  1874) 
from  one  published  in  The  Academy  by  me  (March  28,  1874). 

My  reasons  for  all  alterations  will  be  given  in  my  special  paper  on  each  play.  They  are 
based  chiefly  on  more  scientific  application  of  the  rime-test,  aided  by  the  tueak-ending  test, 
the  middle-syllable  test,  and  above  all  by  the  casura-test,  which  is  next  in  importance  to  the 
rime-test:  and  has  helped  me  much  in  making  a  different  division  of  the  plays  in  some 
instances.  Cymbeline,  however,  was  misplaced  through  another  cause,  a  numerical  blunder ; 
which  I  have  now  corrected.  As  these  investigations  extend,  this  table  will  require  further 
correction. 

Much  Ado  and  Merry  Wi-ves  are  apparently  out  of  order.  There  is  so  much  prose  in 
them  that  two  rimes  would  be  a  sufficient  difference  to  justify  their  present  position:  this 
number  is  too  small  to  overbalance  other  considerations  which  will  be  given  in  due  time. 

F.  G.  Fleay. 


OF  THE  NEW   SHAKSPERE  SOCIETY  FOR    I  874. 


220     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

But  while  this  general  line  of  advance  is  clear,  when 
the  theory  is  pressed  to  the  extent  of  holding  that  we  can 
minutely  determine  priority  as  between  two  plays  which 
we  know  to  have  been  written  close  together  but  whose 
exact  dates  we  do  not  know,  and  that  we  can  confidently 
assume  the  play  containing  the  greater  percentage  of  rimes 
to  have  been  written  earlier  —  though  it  may  be  only  a  few 
months  earlier  —  than  the  play  with  the  smaller  percen- 
tage, then  surely  we  must  pause,  we  must  indeed  say 
No,  unless  all  the  other  considerations  and  tests  support 
the  conclusion  :  in  which  event  the  rime  test  is  certainly 
admirable  as  cumulative  evidence.  For  example,  proceed- 
ing upon  the  relative  number  of  rimes  alone,  Mr.  Fleay 
places  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  here  a  long  time 
before  The  'Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  But  loving  and 
acute  criticism  finds  many  indications  that  this  is  not  the 
proper  order  as  between  those  two  plays,  and  it  would 
certainly  seem  that  a  sober  view  would  never  allow  the 
rime  test  alone  to  outweigh  all  those  indications,  when  we 
consider  (i)  that  the  growing  disuse  of  rimes,  unquestion- 
able as  between  large  periods,  cannot,  from  the  very  nature 
of  the  mind,  be  taken  to  have  gone  on,  like  the  growth  of 
a  Madeira  vine,  at  the  uniform  ratio  of  so  many  inches  a 
day,  and  (2)  that  there  would  be  some  plays  whose  fan- 
ciful nature  might  naturally  call  for  treatment  in  rime, 
such  as  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  while  a  more 
serious  play  like  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  —  which  I 
have  always  thought  was  a  very  earnest  sort  of  comedy  — 
might  as  appropriately  contain  less  of  rime.  When  we 
investigate  the  history  of  English  rime,  we  find  that  rime 
has  been  unquestionably  the  favourite  artistic  form  in 
which  the  Englishman  has  habitually  embodied  his  prayers, 
his  thoughts  of  death,  his  aspirations,  all  his  deepest  feel- 
ings, ever  since  a  long  time  before  Chaucer.     Suddenly  in 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  221 

the  sixteenth  century  we  hear  Surrey  chanting  his  transla- 
tion of  Virgil  in  the  old  Chaucer  rhythm  but  without  the 
Chaucer  rime;  and  then,  fifty  years  afterwards,  we  come 
across  a  noisy  debate  about  rime  which  went  on  just  as 
Shakspere  was  beginning  to  be  a  craftsman  in  verse, 
Harvey  and  Nash  and  Greene  and  Puttenham  and  Webbe 
and  Gascoigne  and  even  Spenser  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney  all 
appearing  on  one  side  or  other.  Now  the  light  of  these 
facts  streams  all  along  the  path  of  Shakspere's  advance  as  a 
craftsman,  and  certainly  reveals  that  general  line  of  develop- 
ment as  one  which  by  the  most  natural  course  in  the 
world  proceeded,  not,  as  Mr.  Fleay's  very  pardonable 
eagerness  would  have  it,  by  a  uniform  rate  of  disuse  of 
rime,  but  to  the  much  higher  plane  of  artistic  technic 
where  rime  came  to  be  regarded  as  a  perfectly  appropriate 
vehicle  for  some  kinds  of  matters  and  as  a  less  appropriate 
one  for  other  kinds  of  matters,  making  the  whole  question 
of  the  use  or  non-use  of  rime  a  question  of  artistic  propri- 
ety. That  Shakspere  so  regarded  it,  and  that  every  word- 
artist  who  looks  at  matters  from  a  lofty  point  of  view  must 
so  regard  it,  I  have  no  doubt. 

With  these  precautions,  then,  we  may  safely  use  the 
rime  test.  The  practical  application  of  it  will  presently 
be  illustrated  v/hen  we  come  to  make  the  special  contrast 
between  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream  and  T'he  'Tempest^ 
in  summing  up  all  the  doctrines  developed  in  these 
lectures. 

Meantime,  let  us  now  go  on  to  a  view  of  a  wholly  dif- 
ferent metrical  test  from  the  rime  test,  namely,  the 
remarkable  change  in  Shakspere's  habit  of  versification 
shown  by  the  great  difference  in  the  relative  numbers  of 
what  are  called  run-on  lines  and  end-stopped  lines  in  his 
later  plays  as  compared  with  his  earlier  ones. 

An    end-stopped   line   in  verse   is   a   line   in  which   a 


222     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

comma  or  other  punctuation-mark,  or  a  break  in  the  sense, 
compels  the  voice  to  pause  at  the  end  of  the  line  in  read- 
ing, and  thus  to  mark  off  that  hne  sharply  for  the  ear  as  a 
group  of  five  bars. 

For  example,  take  the  following  stately  speech  of 
Theseus  in  that  heavenly  opening  of  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream: 

Go,  Philostrate, 
Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments ; 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth  : 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals  ; 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. 

(^Exit  Philostrate.) 

And  Theseus  turns  to  Hippolyta. 

Hippolyta,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword, 
And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries ; 
But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 
With  pomp,  with  triumph  and  with  revelling. 

Now  here,  you  observe,  each  line  ends  with  a  pause  of  the 
sense  and  of  the  voice.  Each  line  is  here,  therefore,  an 
end-stopped  line.  On  the  other  hand,  take  an  example 
of  the  run-on  line  from  "The  'Tempest.  Prospero,  in 
Scene  II  of  Act  I,  is  describing  to  Miranda  the  treachery 
of  his  brother,  who  had  ousted  him  from  his  kingdom  : 

To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  played 

And  him  he  played  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 

Absolute  Milan.      Me,  poor  man,  my  library 

Was  dukedom  large  enough  :   of  temporal  royalties 

He  thinks  me  now  incapable;  confederates 

(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)  wi'  the  King  of  Naples,  etc. 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  223 

Here,  you  observe,  no  line  ends  with  a  comma,  and  at  the 
end  of  none  is  there  any  occasion  for  a  reader's  voice  to 
pause.  On  the  contrary,  each  mark  of  punctuation,  each 
pause  of  the  reader's  voice,  occurs  somewhere  in  the  body 
of  the  line.  Now,  before  advancing  farther,  I  ask  you  to 
notice  the  precise  effect  of  using  these  two  very  different 
kinds  of  lines  —  the  end-stopped  and  the  run-on.  The 
end-stopped,  you  must  observe  immediately,  if  used  con- 
tinually gives  a  stiff  character  to  the  verse.  In  the  speech 
of  Theseus  I  just  quoted  it  happens  to  be  well  enough, 
for  a  certain  large  formality  and  regulated  pomp  seem 
suited  to  his  kingly  state ;  but  you  have  no  difficulty  in 
perceiving  that  the  general  effect  of  a  continuous  succes- 
sion of  such  lines  is  to  give  a  stilted,  wooden,  and  monot- 
onous character  to  the  movement  of  the  verse.  You  are 
all  familiar  with  that  exaggeration  of  this  stiffness  which 
reaches  its  height  when  not  only  a  comma  but  a  rime 
terminates  every  line,  as  in  the  verses  of  the  Pope  school. 
A  quotation  from  Pope,  which  is  quite  in  point  in  more 
ways  than  one,  occurs  to  me,  and  illustrates  this  wooden- 
ness  perfectly.  Pope,  using  the  same  line  with  blank 
verse,  you  observe  —  the  five-barred  iambic  —  drones 
through  page  after  page  like  this,  fondly  thinking  it  a  copy 
of  the  "  exact  Racine." 

He  is  speaking  of  the  superiority  of  French  verse  to 
English,  and  remarks  apologetically  : 

Not  but  the  tragic  spirit  was  our  own, 
And  full  in  Shakspere,  fair  in  Otway,  shone ; 
But  Otway  failed  to  polish  or  refine, 
And  fluent  Shakspere  scarce  effaced  a  line  : 
E'en  copious  Dryden  wanted,  or  forgot, 
The  last  and  greatest  art  —  the  art  to  blot. 

The  lines  move  two  and  two,  by  inexorable  couples,  like 
charity-school   children   in   procession,  each  pair  holding 


224    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

hands  ;  and  the  exactness  becomes  presently  intolerable  to 
the  modern  ear. 

On  the  other  hand,  notice  the  freedom,  the  elasticity, 
the  possibilities  of  varied  swing,  which  come  as  soon  as 
the  pause  is  allowed  to  pass  the  end  of  the  line  and  fall 
wherever  it  likes  in  the  body  of  the  next  line.  Here  the 
poet  has  almost  the  scope  of  prose  with  the  rhythmic 
pulse  and  beat  of  verse ;  it  is,  in  fact,  nothing  more  than 
uprose  mesuree. 

Now  if  we  examine  Shakspere's  plays  with  rcicrence 
to  his  use  of  these  two  sorts  of  lines, —  the  end-stopped 
and  the  run-on, —  we  find  that  in  the  early  plays,  that  is, 
in  the  plays  which  we  know  by  indisputable  external  evi- 
dence to  be  early,  he  used  the  end-stopped  lines  almost 
exclusively,  while  in  the  late  plays  there  is  an  increase  in 
the  number  of  run-on  lines  so  great  and  striking  as  to 
offer  a  notable  proof  of  advance  in  his  technic.  The 
versification  of  the  late  plays  is  freer,  more  natural,  and 
larger  in  music  than  that  of  the  early  plays.  This 
metrical  test  agrees  perfectly  with  the  order  of  the  plays 
which  is  here  placed  before  you  based  upon  other  evi- 
dences. Now  careful  Shakspere  students,  proceeding  upon 
the  hint  of  end-stopped  and  run-on  lines,  which  was  given 
first,  I  think,  by  Bathurst,  have  counted  the  number  of 
end-stopped  lines  and  the  number  of  run-on  lines  in  all 
Shakspere's  plays,  and  have  calculated  their  percentages 
relatively  to  the  whole  number  of  lines  in  each  play  ;  and 
it  is  invariably  found  that  while  he  used  the  end-stopped 
or  stiff  line  almost  exclusively  in  the  earlier  plays,  he 
varied  it  more  and  more  with  the  run-on  or  free  line  in 
the  later  plays.  For  example  :  in  'The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona^  which  is  one  of  the  earliest  plays,  it  is  found  that 
there  are  ten  times  as  many  end-stopped  lines  as  run-on 
lines  ;  while  in  The  Tempest^  which,  you  remember,  is  one 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  225 

of  the  very  latest  plays,  there  are  only  about  three  times 
as  many.  Stating  it  in  another  way,  Shakspere  uses  about 
three  times  as  many  run-on  lines  in  T'he  Tempest  as  he 
does  in  T^he  'Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  Between  other 
plays  the  proportion  is  still  greater.  Thus  in  the  Comedy 
of  Errors^  which  is  one  of  the  early  plays,  the  propor- 
tion of  run-on  lines  to  end-stopped  lines  is  only  as  i  to 
10.7 ;  while  in  Cymbeline,  which  belongs  to  the  latest 
group,  the  proportion  is  as  i  to  2.52  :  that  is,  there  are 
more  than  four  times  as  many  of  the  free  lines  in  Cymbe- 
line  as  there  are  in  The  Comedy  of  Errors.  But  again  :  in 
Love's  Labour  s  Lost,  which  is  among  the  first  plays,  the 
proportion  of  run-on  lines  to  end-stopped  lines  is  only  as 
I  to  18.14,  while  in  The  Winter  s  Tale  it  is  as  i  to  2.12; 
that  is,  in  The  Winter  s  Tale  Shakspere  has  used  about 
nine  times  as  many  of  the  run-on  or  free-form  lines  as  in 
Love's  Labour  s  Lost.  Here  we  see  Shakspere's  growth 
in  technic  so  far  brought  to  mathematical  measurement 
that  when  estimated  by  this  particular  metrical  test  the 
plays  arrange  themselves  substantially  in  that  order  which 
their  other  internal  characteristics  would  lead  us  to  sus- 
pect and  which  the  external  evidence  forces  us  to  admit. 
It  does  not  require  that  one  should  be  practically  familiar 
with  versecraft  in  order  to  recognise  in  the  use  of  these 
run-on  lines  a  certain  advance  in  breadth  of  view  which 
simply  embodies  in  technic  that  spiritual  advance  in 
majesty  of  thought,  in  elevation  of  tone,  in  magnanimity, 
in  largeness  of  moral  scope,  which  you  perceive  as  you 
reflect  upon  the  plots  of  the  plays  as  here  chronologically 
arranged.  When  the  line  runs  on,  as  in  my  quotation 
from  The  Tempest,  you  see  that  it  acquires  a  larger  port 
and  a  more  sweeping  carriage.  It  has  quite  the  same 
efi^ect  as  the  long  phrase  in  music  compared  with  the  short 
phrase.     Those  of  you  who    heard   the  Romance  in    the 


226     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Suite  by  Bach  played  at  the  Peabody  concerts  last  winter 
will  remember  the  sense  of  heavenly  breadth  and  infinite 
expanse  given  by  the  length  of  the  musical  phrases  which 
Bach  has  there  employed  ;  and  if  you  compare  the 
grandeur  of  these  phrases  with  the  slighter-proportioned 
phrases  of  an  ordinary  waltz  or  march,  you  will  have  a 
good  musical  analogue  of  the  difference  between  Shak- 
spere's  later  verse,  which  is  full  of  run-on  lines,  and  his 
earlier  verse,  which  is  full  of  end-stopped  ones  ;  while  at 
the  same  time  you  will  have  a  good  musical  analogue  of 
the  difference  between  the  moral  width  and  nobleness  of 
such  plays  as  T'he  Winter  s  'Tale  and  The  Tempest  and  all  this 
forgiveness-and-reconciliation  group,  and  the  wild,  deli- 
cious riot  and  undebating  abandon  of  the  comedy  group, 
the  Bright  Period. 

And  now  there  is  but  a  moment  to  carry  these  two 
metrical  tests  we  have  been  discussing  over  into  the  larger 
plane  and  bring  them  into  their  proper  relations  in  the 
larger  scheme  of  form  in  general. 

For  this  purpose  let  us  note  precisely  the  very  differ- 
ent rhythmic  functions  of  rime  and  of  the  end-stopped  line 
on  the  one  hand,  and  of  the  run-on  line  on  the  other 
hand.  A  rime  at  the  end  of  two  lines  marks  off  those 
two  lines  as  a  discrete  rhythmic  group  in  a  very  distinct 
manner  for  the  ear;  and  if  the  rime  recur  regularly 
throughout  the  verse  then  a  striking  rhythmic  pattern  is 
clearly  defined  throughout  the  whole  series  of  sounds  by 
this  recurrent  tone-colour.  Just  so,  the  pause  or  rest  at 
the  end  of  an  end-stopped  line  has  the  rhythmic  effect  of 
grouping  all  the  bars  of  sound  in  that  line  into  one  larger 
bar,  as  it  were,  and  thus  of  presenting  the  ear  with  that 
pattern  —  a  five-pattern  if  it  be  a  five-barred  line  like 
these,  a  four-pattern  if  it  be  a  four-barred  line,  and  so 
on.      In  other  words,  just  so  long  as  a  succession  of  end- 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  227 

stopped  lines  continues  in  blank  verse,  just  so  long  does 
the  ear  run  a  regular  formal  pattern  of  5's  through  the 
mass  of  sounds. 

The  rhythmic  function,  therefore,  of  the  rime  and  of 
the  end-stopped  line  is  a  function  of  regularity,  or  form. 
But  precisely  antagonistic  is  the  rhythmic  function  of  the 
run-on  line.  Here,  instead  of  marking  off  regular  sets,  of 
five  bars  in  a  set,  by  the  line  group  as  defined  through  the 
end-stop,  we  interrupt  the  pattern,  we  disturb  the  regu- 
larity, we  break  the  form,  by  placing  the  pause  at  different 
and  unexpected  points  so  as  to  mark  off  groups  of  bars 
larger  or  smaller  than  the  line  group.  In  short,  it  is  easy 
to  see  that  the  rhythmic  function  of  the  run-on  line  is  to 
disestablish  the  very  rhythmus  which  it  is  the  function  of 
the  end-stopped  line  and  the  rime  to  establish.  If  now 
we  remember  the  opposition  list  headed  by  the  words 
Form —  Chaos  ^    as    limiting   terms    of  thought,   we    see 

1  We  find  the  poet  or  maker  [ixolt]-  its  chaos,  so  the  scientific  imagina- 

T?J^)  presiding  at   the  genesis  of  a  tion  rhythmises  its  chaos,  we  have 

poem   to  be   exactly  the  image  of  as  parallel  terms  of  opposition  : 
the  Maker  presiding  at  the  genesis 

of  a  world  :   both  are  rhythmising      Generalisation  Particular 

chaos,    both    weaving    patterns    of 

tune,  of  rhythm    proper,   and    of  ^^   •                            i  i          • 

^            r     r    '  Lromg  on  to  assemble  various  terms 

tone-colour     upon     the     woof    of  r              •  •            i  •  i      i 

,  .               ,  or    opposition    which     have     been 

things,  as  dimly  hinted  in  the  old  j  •       i          j- 

^  used  in  these   discussions,  we   may 

saying,  God   made    the    world    by  ,        , 

.                                      ■'  place  here 
measure,  weight,  and  tune.   Hence, 

remembering  the  doctrine  of  oppo- 
sition in    rhythm  or  nature,  let  us     Aristotle's  Katholon  Kathekaston 

oppose  the  terms  :                                     ^^^  ^'^  The  Individual 

The  others  Myself 

Form                          Chaos                     Altruism  Egoism 

Love  Selfishness 
Then,  bearing  in  mind  that  just  as 

the   poetic  imagination  rhythmises      And    through  the  good    spirit   op- 


228     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

immediately  that  the  rime  and  the  end-stopped  line  belong 
on  this  Form  side,  because  they  tend  to  form,  while 
the  run-on  line  belongs  on  this  Chaos  side,  because  it  tends 
toward  chaos. 

Now  these  opposite  rhythmic  functions  lead  us  to  a 
large  principle  which  rules  over  all  the  work  of  the  verse- 
craftsman  as  it  rules  over  all  art  and  all  form.  The  ear 
will  neither  tolerate  rigid  form,  nor  lawless  chaos,  in 
sounds.  It  must  have  form.  Form,  in  art,  is  like  that 
agreeable-disagreeable  fellow  of  whom  it  was  said  : 

He  had  so  many  quips  and  cranks  about  him, 
There  is  no  living  with  him  nor  without  him. 

posed   to  the  evil  spirit  whose  sin     find  reason  to  call  limiting  forms  of 

was  selfishness  we  have  thought.       According    as    a    given 

philosophy  approaches  near  to  one 

or  the  other,  so  it  takes  its  charac- 

And  through  this   evil  which  was     ter.      Philosophies,  as  well  as  life, 

said     to    come     oi'    selfishness     or     live    in     this     little    lane    between 

liberty  we  have  these  two  mysterious  contradictions. 

These    limiting    forms    bound    our 
Foreknowledge  Freewill  ^^^^^  ^j^^^^^j^^  ^^  ^-^^^^  ^-^^  ^^^^ 


Design  Accident 

Belief  Scepticism 


like     those    two    darknesses    which 
appear  in  the  pathetic  story  of  the 


>> 


Now,  to    do    no    more   at   present  old  Anglo-Saxon  Thane.      "  Sir, 

than  to  supply  the  means  of  profit-  said  he,  describing  the  heathen  life, 

ably   collating  these  partial    terms,  when  the  missionary  had   been  un- 

our  life  is  a  sort  of  lane  which  is  folding  to  the  assembly  the  wonders 

bounded  by  these  great  contradicto-  of  revelation,  "  Sir,  like  as  at  night 

ries.      We   live   between   them,   as  when  one  ray  of  light  streams  from 

we  live   between   those    two    other  tne  illuminated  hall,  and  a  sparrow 

great     contradictories,      the     mys-  flits  across  from  the  darkness  on  one 

tery  of  birth  and    the   mystery    of  side  to  the  darkness  on   the  other, 

death,  which  we  shall  presently  find  so  is  the  life  of  man." 
taking  their  appropriate  place  in  this  Now,  such  being  the  opposition 

list   of  terms.       We    cannot    deny  of  things,  we  shall  find  our  Shak- 

either  :   we  must  accept  both.  spere  rhythmising  his  spheres  and 

Here,  then, we  have  a  few  of  what,  atoms,  making  music  from  antago- 

when  we  complete  the  list,  we  may  nism,  making  good  of  ill. 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  229 

In  other  words,  the  ear  insists  upon  having  form  but  no 
monotony,  and  chaos  but  no  lawlessness.  The  more  form 
you  give  me,  the  better,  says  the  ear ;  and  at  the  same 
time  says.  The  more  chaos  you  give  me,  breaking  the  uni- 
formity of  your  forms,  the  better. 

We  shall  find  this  principle  of  opposite  functions 
greatly  enlarging  itself  in  the  next  lecture.  Meantime, 
looking  upon  this  enormous  chasm  between  the  limiting 
forms  of  thought  and  of  procedure  which  the  artist  must  fill, 
and  wondering  at  the  miracle  of  it,  I  am  reminded  of  a 
story  which  comes  to  us  from  old  Beda.  It  is  related  that 
upon  a  certain  occasion  a  good  father  died,  but  afterwards 
came  again  to  life.  During  his  short  sleep  of  death  he  had 
a  vision  of  hell,  which  he  remembered  and  told.  He 
thought  that  he  beheld  a  profound  and  terrible  gulf,  which 
was  bounded  on  the  one  side  by  an  infinite  wall  of  flame, 
on  the  other  by  an  infinite  wall  of  ice.  Between  these  two 
awful  boundaries  vibrated  a  prodigious  swarm  of  souls  in 
search  of  rest,  now  flying  to  the  wall  of  flame,  driven  by  it 
over  towards  the  wall  of  ice,  again  repelled  by  that  towards 
the  wall  of  flame. 

When  we  think  that  the  artist  is  placed  over  just  such 
a  gulf,  between  two  like  walls,  driven  now  towards  the 
flame  of  chaos  which  would  consume  all  things  to  ashes, 
now  toward  the  ice  of  form  which  would  chill  all  things  to 
deadness,  we  must  needs  wonder  anew  at  the  divine  miracle 
of  genius  which  not  only  in  verse,  but  in  life,  thus  placed, 
rescues  itself  from  these  awful  oppositions,  and  converts 
this  hell  of  antagonism  into  the  heaven  of  art.  It  is  by 
this  process  of  converting  a  hell  into  a  heaven  that  we 
find  Shakspere  crying,  in  that  wonderful  Sonnet  CXIX  : 

What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distilled  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  within, 
Applying  fears  to  hopes  and  hopes  to  fears, 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win  ! 


230     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

What  wretched  errors  hath  my  heart  committed, 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never  ! 
How  have  mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres  been  fitted, 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever ! 
O  benefit  of  ill !  now  I  find  true 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew, 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far  greater. 
So  I  return  rebuk'd  to  my  content, 
And  gain  by  ill  thrice  more  than  I  have  spent. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE  METRICAL  TESTS  — II 

Weak-ending,  Double-ending,  and  Rhythmic  Accent  Tests  ; 
Complete  List  of  Limiting  Forms 


1 

N  the  last  lecture  we  had  some  account 
of  two  of  the  five  proposed  Metrical 
Tests,  namely,  the  Rime  Test  and  the 
Run-on  and  End-stopped  Line  Test. 
Let  us  now  study  the  three  remaining 
ones  :  the  Weak-ending,  the  Double- 
ending,  and  the  Rhythmic  Accent 
Tests.  Aweak-ending  line  is  onewhich 
ends  in  some  merely  connective  word,  such  as  a  conjunction 
or  a  preposition  or  an  auxiliary  verb,  instead  of  ending,  as 
is  most  natural  and  as  a  large  majority  of  lines  do  end,  in  a 
noun  or  a  verb  or  some  such  important  vocable.  Words 
like  and^  for^  that^  if^  uporiy  be,  could^  or,  and  the  like,  are 
specimens  of  weak  endings.  For  example,  take  these 
lines  from  The  Tempest : 

Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
.   .   .   did  give  us, 

where  that  is  a  weak  ending ; 

231 


232     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star, 

where  upon  is  a  weak  ending ; 

A  freckled  whelp  hag-born — not  honour'd  with 
A  human  shape, 

where  wiih  is  a  weak  ending  ; 

Weigh'd  between  loathness  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  o'  the  beam  she'd  bow, 

where  at  is  a  weak  ending. 

These  examples  will  be  sufficient  to  make  you  recog- 
nise the  weak  ending  without  difficulty  :  it  is  always  some 
merely  relational  word  which  would  leave  the  thought 
incomplete  without  the  word  in  the  next  Hne.  Weak  end- 
ings have  been  divided  into  two  classes,  one  called  the 
Light  Ending  and  one  the  Weak  Ending  proper,  a  Light 
Ending  being  a  word  such  as  am^  be,  could^  an  auxiliary  verb 
in  general,  or  a  pronoun,  /,  they,  etc.  ;  while  a  Weak  End- 
ing proper  is  any  one  of  the  still  less  important  words,  such 
as  and,  if,  or,  but,  and  the  like.  For  the  purpose  of  the 
present  account,  however,  we  can  conveniently  and  accu- 
rately include  both  these  classes  under  the  general  term  of 
Weak  Endings. 

Now  the  weak-ending  line  as  a  metrical  test  differs 
in  an  interesting  particular  from  the  others.  You  observe 
that  the  weak-ending  hne  is  indeed  only  a  species  of  run- 
on  line ;  in  the  lines  last  quoted,  for  example, 

Weigh'd  between  loathness  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  o'  the  beam  she'd  bow, 

one  sees  immediately   that   the    preposition  at  inevitably 
runs  the  mind  and  the  voice  on  to  find  its  regimen  end  in 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  233 

the  next  line.  Since,  then,  the  weak-ending  line  is  only 
one  sort  of  run-on  line,  there  would  be  no  necessity  for 
erecting  it  into  a  special  class  if  it  were  not  for  the  pecu- 
liarity that  while  Shakspere's  use  of  the  run-on  line 
increased  (as  we  saw)  gradually  on  the  whole  from  his  first 
plays  to  his  last  ones,  his  use  of  the  weak-ending  line  may 
be  said  to  begin  abruptly,  far  on  in  his  career,  at  Mac- 
beth. To  reduce  this  statement  to  numbers,  according  to 
the  table  of  Professor  Ingram,  with  whose  name  we  may 
specially  associate  the  weak-ending  test,  in  the  Comedy  of 
Errors^  which  is  an  early  play,  there  is  not  a  single  weak- 
ending  line ;  in  l^he  'Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  not  one ;  in 
A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  there  is  one  ;  in  As  You  Like 
It  there  are  two  ;  in  Twelfth  Night  there  are  four :  but 
when  we  get  to  Macbeth  we  find  suddenly  twenty-three, 
and  then  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  the  number  jumps  up  to 
ninety-nine,  while  in  The  Tempest^  with  only  about  half  the 
whole  number  of  verse-lines  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra^  we 
have  sixty-seven  weak  endings,  equivalent  to  about  one 
hundred  and  thirty  as  compared  with  the  other  play. 

This  numerical  exhibit  —  without  going  into  more 
details  of  it,  which  any  of  you  who  may  desire  can  find  in 
Professor  Ingram's  Table  of  Weak  Endings,  published  in 
Part  II  of  the  New  Shakspere  Society's  Transactions  for 
1874  —  this  numerical  exhibit  would  seem  to  give  us 
beyond  doubt  a  keen  glimpse  into  the  process  of  Shak- 
spere's mind  as  regards  versification.  It  seems  clear  that 
up  to  a  certain  point  he  avoided  the  weak-ending  line  in 
making  his  verse ;  and  that  at  that  point,  about  Macbeth 
or  a  little  earlier,  he  entirely  changed  his  opinion  about 
it,  and  thereafter  permitted  himself  to  use  the  weak-ending 
line  with  perfect  freedom.  This  result  we  might,  indeed, 
have  looked  for.  The  weak-ending  line  is,  as  we  just  now 
saw,  only  one  species  of  run-on  line  ;  and  the  same  process 


234     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

in  his  mind  which  led  him  to  use  the  run-on  Hne  with 
more  and  more  freedom  must  have  led  him  to  use  the 
weak-ending  line  with  like  freedom. 

Let  us  now  advance  to  the  fourth  of  our  Metrical 
Tests,  that  called  the  double-ending  test.  The 
nature  of  the  double-ending  line  may  be  precisely  seen  by 
comparing  one  with  the  musical  notation  of  a  normal  or 
single-ending  line,  which  I  have  here  made.      For  example  : 


A 

J 

• 

• 

1 

1/ 

In 

maid 

en 

A 

A 

A 

• 

• 

• 

» 

» 

« 

l^ 

1 

U 

1 

U 

1    - 

ta    - 

tion 

fan    - 

cy 

fre 

med 

is  a  normal  line,  ending  in  the  single  quarter-note  "  free." 
But 

'  r  I J  r  I  u  r  I  *  r  I  *  j  *  I 

This    wide  chapp'd  ras    -    cal,  would     thou  mightst     lie    drown -ing 

differs  from  it  strikingly,  you  observe,  in  the  last  bar. 
Here  we  find  the  quarter-note  is  split  into  its  two  equiva- 
lent eighth-notes,  and  the  bar  has  three  sounds  in  it 
instead  of  two.  In  other  words,  this  is  a  double-ending 
line.  Notice  that  the  last  sounds  need  not  be  syllables 
of  the  same  word,  but  may  be  two  independent  words. 
This  we  see  in  the  next  lines  : 

OH!    I   HAVE   SUFFER'D 
•        \      P  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 


&  r  I  f  r  I '  r  I  •  r  I J  j  ^  , 

With  those      that       I  saw     suf    -     fer:      a         brave    ves  -  sel 

Who     had,        no    doubt,     some    no     -     ble     crea  -  tares     in     her 

The  line  ending  in  "  vessel  "  shows  the  double  ending  as 
two  syllables  of  the  same  word,  while  the  next  shows  it  as 
two  words  —  "  in  her."  Note,  then,  that  just  like  the  dis- 
use of  rime,  just  like  the  run-on  line,  just  like  the  weak- 
ending  line,  the  double-ending  line  is  a  variation  of  the 
normal  form  J  is  a  departure  from  regularity  of  structure  in 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  :l2S 

the  verse.  Regularity  of  structure  demands  the  normal 
bar,  which  is  a  bar  of  two  sounds  bearing  to  each  other  the 
relations  of  duration  and  intensity  indicated  by  these  musi- 
cal signs  :  but  the  double-ending  line  shows  us  this  normal 
type  of  bar  departed  from,  so  as  to  offer  the  ear  three 
sounds  instead  of  two  in  the  bar.  Note,  too,  that  this 
departure  is  made  at  what  we  may  fairly  call  the  most 
prominent  point  in  the  whole  line,  namely,  the  last  bar  in 
the  line.  For  since  in  every  normal  end-stopped  line  a 
pause  is  made  after  this  last  bar,  for  the  purpose  of  mark- 
ing off  for  the  ear  the  group  of  bars  contained  in  that  line, 
the  ear  gets  in  the  habit  of  listening  for  that  bar,  and  thus 
any  variation  in  that  bar  is  more  pronounced  than  it  would 
be  at  any  other  point  of  the  verse-structure. 

These  considerations  are  enough  to  show  that  the  dou- 
ble ending  is  a  very  striking  innovation  upon  the  normal 
rhythmic  movement,  and  that  any  verse  in  which  double- 
ending  lines  should  be  frequent  would  present  a  very  strik- 
ing characteristic,  as  opposed  to  verse  in  which  it  was  rare. 

When,  therefore,  we  come  to  apply  this  test  like  the 
others  to  Shakspere's  verse,  and  find  —  as  we  might  natu- 
rally expect  from  what  has  gone  before  —  that  the  plays 
shown  to  be  late  by  the  other  tests  are  also  shown  to  be 
late  by  this  test,  we  are  driven  to  confess  that  the  evidence 
is  accumulating  in  a  way  that  sets  up  a  strong  probability 
in  favour  of  this  general  scheme  of  chronology.  To>give 
some  exact  determination  of  these  matters  :  according  to 
the  table  of  double  endings  prepared  by  Mr.  Fleay,  there 
are  in  Loves  Labour  s  Lost  only  9  double  endings  ;  in 
Midsummer  Night' s  Dream  there  are  29  ;  in  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona  we  advance  to  2.03  ;  in  As  Ton  Like  It  to  211  ; 
when  we  get  into  the  second  period  Macbeth  shows 
us  1^^^,  Hamlet  508,  and  Othello  646  double  endings; 
while  when  we  come  to  the  third  period  Cymbeline  yields 


236     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

us  726  double  endings  and  Ihe  Tempest  (with  about 
1,400  less  lines  in  its  total  than  Cymbeline,  nevertheless) 
yields  476  double  endings.  The  steady  advance  here  is 
most  striking  ;  and  when  we  compare  the  extremes,  taking 
an  early  play  like  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  with  only 
29  double  endings  and  opposing  it  to  The  Tempest  with 
its  476,  we  are  certainly  confronted  by  a  very  notable 
change  in  Shakspere's  versification. 

And  here  let  us  pause  a  moment  to  note  one  curious 
feature  in  Shakspere's  use  of  the  double  ending,  remark- 
ably illustrating  that  enormous  self-control  of  his  which  I 
shall  have  occasion  to  develope  in  the  next  lecture.  While 
it  is  true  that  Shakspere  gradually  found  so  much  more 
freedom  in  using  the  double-ending  line  that  his  late 
play  Cymbeline  shows  us  the  enormous  disproportion  of 
726  double  endings  when  compared  with  his  early  play 
Love' s  Labour  s  Lost^  which  has  only  9  —  while,  I  say,  the 
double  ending  thus  evidently  grew  in  its  charm  for  him, 
yet  note  that  it  never  ran  away  with  him,  as  it  did  with 
some  other  poets  of  his  time.  The  significance  of  this 
remark  will  come  out  if  we  compare  Shakspere's  em- 
ployment of  the  double  ending  with  that  of  a  famous 
dramatist  who  had  the  honour  of  being  part  author  with 
Shakspere  in  one  of  his  greatest  plays,  and  perhaps  in 
others  —  1  mean  John  Fletcher.  A  short  time  ago  an 
English  scholar  who  has  great  faith  in  the  Metrical  Tests, 
the  same  Mr.  Fleay,  carefully  examined,  with  reference 
to  the  double  endings,  a  number  of  plays  written  by 
Fletcher  alone,  including  several  thought  to  be  written  by 
him,  but  not  known  by  positive  evidence  to  be  so,  the 
whole  number  of  Fletcher  plays  being  seventeen.  Upon 
counting  the  double  endings  the  following  results  ap- 
peared —  and  as  I  read  off  two  or  three  of  these  deter- 
minations, compare  the    least  of  them  with   the  greatest 


Sit^rtBoctiy Bvanr,  fivm a.  Ant' print  ty  Krtua. 


John  Fletcher 


THE    METRICAL    TESTS  237 

number  of  double  endings  in  any  of  Shakspere's  plays:  in 
Fletcher's  phy  of  Custom  of  the  Country  were  found  1,756 
double  endings;  in  Women  Pleased  appeared  1,823;  ^^ 
Wild  Goose  Chase  appeared  1,949  ;  in  the  Humorous  Lieu- 
tenant 2,193;  and  in  The  Loyal  Subject  2,266  double 
endings. 

These  figures  show  us  unmistakably  how  a  peculiarity 
of  versification  like  the  double-ending  line  can  take  hold 
of  a  writer's  artistic  taste,  much  as  tobacco  can  take  hold  of 
his  physical  taste,  and  can  grow  into  an  inexorable  habit. 
Now  when  we  compare  these  thousands  of  Fletcher's 
double  endings  with  the  modest  scores  and  hundreds  of 
Shakspere,  we  come  face  to  face  with  that  manful  control 
and  balance  in  artistic  matters  which  we  shall  presently 
find  ruling  in  just  the  same  way  over  Shakspere's  whole 
moral  conduct. 

While  we  are  thus  comparing  Shakspere's  and  Fletcher's 
employment  of  the  double  ending,  let  us  take  the  appro- 
priate occasion  to  see  how  the  Metrical  Tests  are  applied 
to  other  important  matters  besides  determinations  of 
chronology.  Consider,  for  example,  the  recent  investiga- 
tions into  the  play  of  King  Henry  Fllly  which  would 
seem  not  only  to  have  settled  quite  conclusively  that  the 
play  was  written  by  Shakspere  and  Fletcher,  but  to  have 
separated  with  great  accuracy  the  precise  scenes  and  lines 
which  were  written  by  Fletcher  from  those  which  were 
written  by  Shakspere.  Now  in  this  determination  the 
double-ending  metrical  test  was  used  with  singular  effect 
in  reducing  to  exactness  such  vague  opinions  as  were 
before  held  on  this  matter.  It  had  been  before  suspected 
by  several  writers  that  in  this  play  of  King  Henry  VIII 
another  hand  was  discernible  besides  Shakspere's.  Per- 
haps the  most  interesting  citation  I  could  make  in  this 
connection  is  from  our  own  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.    That 


238     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

deep-seeing  eye  had  detected  a  great  difference  between 
parts  of  King  Henry  VIII  in  artistic  construction.  In 
his  essay  on  Shakspere,  in  Representative  Men^  Mr.  Emer- 
son says  :  "In  Henry  VIII  I  think  I  see  plainly  the  crop- 
ping out  of  the  original  rock  on  which  his  [Shakspere's] 
own  finer  stratum  was  laid."  These  parts  of  it  were 
"  written  by  a  superior  thoughtful  man  with  a  vicious  ear. 
I  can  mark  his  lines,  and  know  well  their  cadence. 
The  lines  are  constructed  on  a  given  tune."  Here, 
Emerson  does  not  seem  to  have  suspected  Fletcher ;  but 
how  inimitably  do  his  words  describe  that  dramatist  —  "  a 
superior  thoughtful  man  with  a  vicious  ear  !  "  Fletcher, 
however,  had  been  conjectured  as  the  co-writer  by  others 
as  long  ago  as  1850.  In  that  year  Mr.  Spedding  pub- 
lished a  paper  in  which  many  considerations  were  adduced 
to  show  Fletcher's  part  in  Henry  VIII^  and  this  was  fol- 
lowed by  an  independently  worked  out  judgment  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Hickson's,  published  in  Notes  and  ^eries  during 
the  same  year. 

But  these  judgments  were  necessarily  more  or  less 
vague,  because  depending  more  or  less  upon  that  variable 
element  between  individuals  which  astronomers  call  the 
personal  equation;  and  at  this  point  the  Metrical  Tests 
come  in  with  most  satisfactory  effect  to  confirm  previous 
conclusions  with  great  exactness.  You  remember  that  we 
just  now  found  from  Mr.  Fleay's  table  of  the  double 
endings  in  a  group  of  Fletcher's  plays  that  the  num- 
bers ranged  1,700,  1,900,  2,000,  and  so  on.  Now  it 
involved  only  the  work  of  adding  up  all  these  figures  for 
each  play  and  dividing  the  total  by  the  number  of  plays  to 
get  an  average  of  double  endings  which  might  be  con- 
sidered fairly  characteristic  of  Fletcher's  work  when 
taken  in  connection  with  the  total  number  of  verse-lines 
considered.     Such  an  average  was  found  to  be  1,777,  and 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  239 

this  number  then  became  —  as  you  easily  see — a  sort  of 
graph  or  sign-manual  of  Fletcher,  so  that  in  going  through 
the  play  of  Henry  VIII  it  was  almost  as  if  many  passages 
were  enclosed  in  brackets  and  signed  with  Fletcher's  name. 

By  using  the  double-ending  test, —  particularly  with 
reference  to  a  peculiarity  of  Fletcher's  in  this  connection 
which  I  could  not  explain  here  without  going  into  too 
much  technical  detail, —  and  by  checking  such  conclu- 
sions with  other  tests  and  with  various  more  general  con- 
siderations of  style  and  matter,  the  respective  scenes, 
passages,  and  even  lines  of  Shakspere  and  Fletcher  in  the 
play  of  Henry  VIII  have  been  sorted  out  with  a  minute- 
ness which  is  truly  interesting.  The  metrical  and  other 
tests,  employed  in  such  number  and  variety,  constitute  a 
kind  of  sieves  or  screens  like  those  employed  in  the  coal- 
yards  to  sort  out  the  different  sizes  of  coal  —  separating 
here  the  big  Shakspere  lump  in  one  bin,  there  the  smaller 
Fletcher  lump  in  another,  and  so  on. 

While  in  this  connection  I  ought  to  mention  that  the 
play  of  T^he  I'wo  Noble  Kinsmen,  which  is  usually  put  into 
the  back  part  of  our  ordinary  editions  of  Shakspere  and 
classed  as  a  doubtful  play,  has  also  been,  as  one  might 
say,  chemically  treated  with  the  Metrical  Tests,  particularly 
with  the  average  double-ending  test  just  now  described, 
with  the  result  of  confirming  in  the  most  satisfactory  man- 
ner judgments  based  on  other  considerations  ;  and  perhaps 
we  may  fairly  consider  not  only  that  Shakspere  is  now 
established  to  be  part  author  of  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmeny 
—  the  other  being  Fletcher, —  but  that  we  know  with  much 
accuracy  every  passage  which  is  Shakspere's  and  every 
passage  which  is  Fletcher's  throughout  the  play. 

And  now  let  us  pass  on  to  the  fifth  and  last  metrical 
test  to  which  I  have  proposed  to  invite  your  notice. 
Consider  this  fourth  bar  in  the  line 


240    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

*U  r  I  •  r  I  •  r  1  •  r  U  c  t  \ 

With  those       that       I  saw      suf    -     fer :      a         brave     ves  -  sel 

Remembering  that,  as  we  often  saw  in  studying  rhythm, 
the  musical  sign  a  represents  the  rhythmical  accent,  here 
you  see  that  the  rhythmical  accent  falls  upon  a  word  which 
does  not  take  an  accent  in  ordinary  speech  :  we  would  not 
say. 

With  those  that  I  saw  suffer :  a  brave  vessel, 

but  "  a  brave  vessel."  Of  course  every  one,  however 
little  acquainted  with  versecraft,  knows  that  the  normal 
method  by  which  the  verse-maker  indicates  the  point 
where  the  rhythmic  accent  should  fall  in  his  verse  is  to 
arrange  words  which  have  a  certain  well-known  accentua- 
tion in  our  ordinary  speech  in  such  a  manner  that  each 
syllable  taking  the  ordinary  accent  falls  at  the  place  where 
the  rhythmic  accent  is  intended  to  be.     Thus  in  writing, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free, 

the  poet  Indicates  to  us  that  the  rhythmic  accent  must  fall 
upon  "  maid-,"  "  med-,"  "  fan-,"  etc.,  by  so  arranging 
the  words  of  which  these  syllables  are  part  that  the  voice 
puts  the  accent  at  those  points  where  it  would  fall  in 
ordinary  speech. 

This  seems  simple  enough  when  thus  approached ; 
and  you  might  wonder  at  even  so  much  preliminary  de- 
tail about  accent  if  it  were  not  stated  that  this  subject  has 
been  hopelessly  confused  by  some  of  the  most  earnest  and 
otherwise  successful  Shakspere  scholars  through  the  failure 
to  discriminate  between  the  different  sorts  of  accent  which 
are  in  ordinary  use  among  English-speaking  people.  The 
value  of  such  a  discrimination  will  appear  if  I  briefly  recall 
to  your  minds  a  clear  conception  of  at  least  three  wholly 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  241 

different  phenomena  which  are  all  termed  "  accent." 
There  are  several  more ;  but  these  will  suffice  for  the 
matter  now  in  hand. 

In  ordinary  English  speech  every  word  of  more  than 
one  syllable  is  pronounced  with  an  unequal  intensity  upon 
some  special  syllable ;  and  this  syllable  thus  accented  is 
fixed  in  each  word.  Thus  content^  admirable^  etc.,  where 
the  syllables  con-  and  ad-  are  clearly  differentiated  from 
their  neighbours  by  their  relative  intensity.  Let  us  call 
this  the  pronunciation  accent,  for  the  sake  of  distinction. 
But,  again,  we  have  a  distinct  accent  from  this,  exercising  a 
wholly  different  function  in  our  speech.  That  is  the 
logical  accent,  which  we  place  upon  every  important  word 
in  a  sentence.  This  accent,  you  see,  concerns  the  whole 
word  in  its  relation  to  its  neighbouring  words,  not  a  syllable 
in  relation  to  neighbouring  syllables.  Thus  we  say  :  "  Did 
you  want  this  book  or  that  book?"  when  the  logical  an- 
tithesis between  this  and  that  is  indicated  by  their  respective 
accents  —  this  accent,  mark,  consisting  not  only  of  a  rela- 
tive variation  in  intensity  but  also  of  a  variation  in  pitch. 
The  voice  is  perceptibly  not  only  more  forcible  but  higher 
on  this  than  on  that  in  the  given  sentence.  Let  us,  then, 
call  this  the  logical  or  word  accent,  in  distinction  from  the 
other,  the  pronunciation  or  syllable  accent. 

But,  again,  there  is  a  third  accent,  differing  entirely  in 
function  from  these  two ;  that  is,  the  rhythmic  accent, 
which  is  common  to  both  poetry  and  music,  and  which 
plays  exactly  the  same  part  in  every  piece  of  verse  as  in 
every  piece  of  music.  This  part  is  to  point  off  the  whole 
series  of  sounds  for  the  ear  into  those  equal  groups  which 
are  called  bars.  In  every  musical  composition  it  is  under- 
stood that  the  first  note  in  each  bar,  no  matter  what  may 
be  its  pitch  or  duration  or  tone-colour,  is  to  be  singled  out 
by  a  slight  increase  in  its  intensity,  so  that  the  ear  instantly 


142 


SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 


recognises  the  boundaries  of  each  bar  as  the  piece  is  played, 
and  is  thus  able  to  coordinate  bar  with  bar  throughout  the 
whole  piece.  This  is  the  rhythmic  determinant  of  every 
musical  piece,  this  recurrence  of  the  rhythmic  accent  at 
exactly  equal  intervals  of  time  upon  the  first  tone  in  each 
bar.  Now  each  bar  in  a  line  of  poetry  is  in  exactly  the 
same  way  indicated  to  the  ear  by  including  its  beginning 
and  its  terminus  between  two  slight  variations  in  intensity 
which  mark  its  first  tone  and  the  first  tone  of  the  next  bar. 
Without  such  a  system  of  marks  the  rhythms  which  we 
call  trochaic,  iambic,  etc.,  would  be  marked  off  with  much 
less  distinctness  to  the  ear.  But  note,  as  of  paramount 
importance  in  this  particular  test  we  are  now  studying, 
that  just  as  the  place  of  the  rhythmic  accent  in  any  bar  of 
mxusic  may  be  changed  for  a  moment  from  the  first  note 
in  the  bar  to  any  other  note  in  it,  and  that  this  change  is 
often  made,  in  one  bar  or  two  bars,  simply  for  the  purpose 
of  variety, —  of  breaking  up  the  monotonous  succession  of 
bar  after  bar,  all  accented  on  the  same  corresponding 
note, —  so  in  verse  the  same  breaking  of  the  bar-monotony 
occurs  when  the  verse-maker,  instead  of  placing  a  syllable 
which  takes  the  pronunciation  accent  or  a  word  which 
takes  the  logical  accent  ("  maid-,"  and  "  free ")  in  the 
rhythmically  accented  place  of  the  bar,  allows  a  syllable  or 
word  ("  a  brave  vessel ")  to  fall  in  that  place  which  does 
not  take  the  other  accent  in  ordinary  speech.  In  music 
a  special  sign  is  used  to  indicate  this  change,  and  in  read- 
ing the  notes,  the  musician,  when  he  sees  that  sign,  does 
not  accent  the  first  note  in  the  bar,  but  accents  the  note 
which  has  the  sign  over  it.  Please  note  that  in  verse,  as  in 
music,  the  effect  of  this  changing  the  relative  place  of  the 
rhythmic  accent  is  to  vary  the  rhythmic  pattern  set  up  by 
the  general  systematic  recurrence  of  this  accent  at  the 
beginning  of  the  bar,  where  the  ear  has  learned  to  look 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  243 

for  it.  It  is  instructive,  for  the  use  presently  to  be  made 
of  all  this  discussion  of  metrical  tests,  to  note  how  precisely- 
parallel  is  this  variation  of  monotony  by  change  in  accent 
with  that  variation  of  monotony  which  we  just  now  saw 
effected  by  the  double  ending.  Then,  when  the  ear  had 
learned  to  look  for  two  sounds  in  each  bar, —  and  particu- 
larly for  two  sounds  and  a  pause  in  that  special  bar  which 
terminates  the  line, —  we  found  that  Shakspere  more  and 
more  tended  to  give  three  sounds  in  that  bar  —  that  is, 
the  double-ending  line  —  in  order  to  vary  the  bar-struc- 
ture agreeably  from  its  rigid  form. 

I  have  thought  it  worth  while  thus  to  discriminate  the 
true  function  of  the  rhythmic  accent  as  distinguished  from 
the  pronunciation  accent  and  the  logical  accent,  specially  be- 
cause one  of  the  greatest  modern  scholars  has  founded  a 
whole  theory  of  blank  verse  upon  what  is  clearly  a  confu- 
sion of  these  accents,  with  the  result  of  arriving  at  conclu- 
sions which  are  wholly  absurd  as  to  their  general  effect, 
and  which  as  to  their  special  effect  would  rob  Shakspere's 
verse  of  its  most  wonderful  and  subtle  features. 

If,  then,  regularity  of  verse-structure  is  determined  by 
the  regular  recurrence  of  the  rhythmic  accent  on  a  given 
note  in  each  bar,  and  if  a  temporary  change  in  the  place  of 
the  accent  would  tend  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  the 
rhythmic  flow,  we  should  expect  to  find,  from  what  has 
been  revealed  of  Shakspere's  progress  by  the  other  tests, 
that  he  became  more  and  more  fond  in  his  later  plays  of 
placing  such  unimportant  words  as  a^  in,  of,  the,  etc.,  in  the 
accented  place  of  the  bar,  so  as  in  effect  to  change  the 
accent  by  throwing  the  voice  upon  some  more  important 
word  or  syllable. 

Here  I  am  not  able  to  present  you  with  any  exact 
reductions  to  numbers,  as  in  the  case  of  the  other  metrical 
tests  we  have  studied.     The  possibility  of  such  a  test  as 


244     SHAKSPERE  AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

this  rhythmic  accent  test  occurred  to  me  last  summer 
while  writing  a  work  on  English  verse  ;  but  other  press- 
ing occupations  have  prevented  that  patient  count  which 
would  have  to  be  made  by  taking  every  line  in  Shakspere's 
plays,  applying  it  to  this  normal  type  of  blank  verse,  and 
setting  down  every  time  where  an  unimportant  word  like 
^,  ifiy  fhe,  or  the  like  fell  under  the  place  of  the  rhythmic 
accent.  The  importance  of  such  a  test  would  be  very 
great.  Without  now  taking  time  to  detail  the  special 
technical  value  of  this  rhythmic  accent  test,  it  is  easy  to 
infer  its  general  value  by  considering  that  necessarily  the 
degree  of  probability  established  by  these  evidences  in- 
creases, not  in  arithmetical  ratio,  but  in  a  more  than  geo- 
metrical ratio  with  every  new  test.  The  evidence,  you 
observe,  is  cumulative  :  the  effect  of  every  new  test  is  not 
only  to  multiply  the  probability  as  many  times  as  there  are 
tests  in  all,  but  much  more. 

We  have  now  considered  the  special  function  of  our 
five  Metrical  Tests  in  determining  the  relative  dates  of 
Shakspere  plays  ;  and  so  many  cautions  have  already  been 
given  in  various  connections  with  each  one  that  it  is  not 
necessary  to  do  more,  in  summing  up  our  conclusions,  than 
to  say  that,  while  no  one  or  two  or  more  metrical  tests 
must  be  pushed  to  over-minute  determinations  in  settling 
the  place  of  a  play  within  small  limits, —  that  is,  while  we 
must  carefully  avoid  over-minuteness  in  applying  them, — 
on  the  other  hand,  we  can  make  them  of  very  high  value 
in  checking  other  conclusions  and  in  setting  up  broadly 
discriminated  periods  in  Shakspere's  artistic  growth. 

And  now  let  us  assume  a  higher  point  of  view,  and 
regard  the  general  revelation,  made  to  us  by  a/I  the  Metri- 
cal Tests,  of  the  line  of  Shakspere's  advance  as  an  artist  in 
verse-making.  It  is  at  this  point  that  we  can  see  the  line 
of  his   artistic    advance    uniting  with    that    of  his  moral 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  245 

advance ;  and  we  can  now  effect  a  complete  junction 
between  the  two  trains  of  discussion,  embracing  so  many 
details. 

For  consider  the  general  line  of  artistic  tendency  in 
Shakspere,  which  all  the  Metrical  Tests  we  have  studied 
agree  in  disclosing,  (i)  We  found  that  he  tended  more 
and  more,  from  the  early  plays  to  the  late  ones,  to  disuse 
rime ;  and  since  the  rime  recurring  at  the  end  of  each  line 
is  a  very  striking  method  of  marking  off^  a  regular  line- 
group  for  the  ear,  of  impressing  a  regular  pattern  of  fives 
upon  the  ear,  the  disuse  of  rime  is  clearly  an  advance 
towards  freedom,  towards  the  relief  from  monotony,  towards 
the  greater  display  of  individuality  in  verse. 

(2)  If  you  carry  this  on  to  the  next  test  you  find  it 
showing  a  precisely  similar  advance  towards  freedom  by 
another  particular  of  verse-construction.  We  found  that 
the  end-stopped  line,  just  like  the  rime,  marked  off^the  end 
of  each  line  very  strikingly  for  the  ear  by  the  pause  which 
comes  after  it,  and  thus  made  a  regular  grouping  of  fives ; 
while  the  run-on  line  broke  up  this  regular  grouping  by 
running  one  line  into  another,  and  thus  relieved  the  monot- 
ony of  the  rhythm  ;  and  thus  the  clear  and  notable  increase 
in  the  number  of  run-on  lines  in  the  late  plays  simply  rep- 
resented the  same  progress  towards  freedom,  towards  indi- 
viduality, towards  relief  from  monotony,  which  the  disuse 
of  rime  indicated. 

(3)  Then  the  weak-ending  test,  which  was  simply  a 
species  of  run-on  line,  showed  us,  by  the  great  increase  of 
weak  endings  in  the  late  plays  over  the  early  ones,  the 
same  progress  towards  relief  from  monotony,  towards  free- 
dom, towards  individuality. 

(4)  Then  the  double-ending  test,  with  its  476  occur- 
rences —  that  is,  476  variations  of  the  normal  bar  —  in  T'he 
Tempest,  contrasted  with   only  29  such  variations  in  the 


246     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Midsummer  Nighi's  Dream^  showed  us  exactly  the  same 
tendency  towards  variations  of  monotonous  regularities, 
towards  freedom,  towards  individuality. 

(5)  And  finally  the  changes  of  the  normal  rhythmic 
accent,  which  are  certainly  far  more  numerous  in  'T/ie  'Tem- 
pest than  in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  exhibit  the 
same  artistic  growth.  But  now,  on  the  other  hand,  mark 
carefully  that  these  departures  towards  freedom  are  not 
wild,  like  Fletcher's  ;  Shakspere  in  the  later  plays  still 
uses  rime,  still  has  the  greater  number  of  his  lines  regular 
or  end-stopped,  still  has  the  greater  number  of  his  endings 
normal  instead  of  abnormally  weak  or  double,  still  has  the 
greater  number  of  his  rhythmic  accents  in  the  normal  regu- 
lar places  instead  of  the  abnormal  irregular  places.  In 
other  words,  the  artistic  advance  towards  freedom  is  a  con- 
trolled temperate  advance,  in  which  the  law  of  verse,  the 
regularity  of  verse-structure,  is  preserved  reverently,  while 
it  is  merely  varied  with  the  occasional  departures. 

In  short,  Shakspere's  general  advance  is  clearly  a  more 
artistic  balancing  of  the  oppositions  which  constitute  verse ; 
and  this  idea  enables  us  now  to  present  a  perfectly  clear 
statement  of  that  artistic  advance  in  terms  of  our  theory  of 
oppositions,  and  thus  to  bring  out  this  artistic  advance  as 
only  one  side  of  his  general  moral  advance. 

For  this  purpose,  let  us  place  these  oppositions  of 
regularity  and  irregularity,  of  monotony  and  variety, — 
upon  the  artistic  balancing  of  which  the  whole  music  of 
verse  depends, —  let  us  place,  I  say,  these  oppositions  on 
the  sides  of  our  opposition  diagram,  to  which  they 
belong.  You  will  remember  that  through  a  great  variety 
of  details  and  principles,  accumulating  from  lecture  to  lec- 
ture, we  have  climbed  to  a  point  of  view  which  commands 
the  whole  field  of  form  so  far  as  to  show  in  parallel  lines  a 
poem  as  a  form  in  art,  a  generalisation  as  form  in  science,  a 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS  247 

balanced  character  as  form  in  morals  or  behaviour ;  and 
we  have  found  the  principle  of  opposition  underlying  this 
matter  in  every  one  of  its  widely  differing  phases,  from  the 
opposition  of  forces  which  cause  the  minute  rhythms  of 
sound  and  light  and  the  great  rhythms  of  the  periodic 
planets,  to  those  oppositions  of  verse-structure,  rime 
and  no  rime,  end-stopped  line  and  run-on  line,  sin- 
gle-ending and  double-ending,  and  the  like,  which  we 
have  just  seen  Shakspere  using  to  make  his  verse  good ; 
and  finally  to  those  oppositions  in  the  moral  structure  of 
things  which  every  man  must  balance  in  order  to  make 
his  character  good.  Now  let  us  recur  to  those  limiting 
terms  of  this  universal  opposition  which  form  vanishing- 
points  into  which  all  the  lines  of  man's  activity,  spiritual, 
physical,  artistic,  moral  activity,  must  run  ;  let  us,  I  say, 
recur  to  these  terms,  and  set  before  our  eyes  the  artistic 
advance  of  Shakspere  revealed  by  the  Metrical  Tests  in 
similar  terms.  Here,  starting  with  the  fundamental  terms 
of  opposition,  Form  and  Chaos,  and  using  no  more  of  the 
list  than  necessary  for  the  present  purpose,  we  have  in  na- 
ture, as  including  all  forms. 

Form  Chaos 

and  correlatively  in   those  forms  produced   by  drawing  a 
scientific  induction. 

Generalisation  Detail 

and  correlatively  in  those  forms  connected  with  character, 

Law  Freedom 

Regularity  Irregularity 

Love  Self 

Not-me  Me 


248     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

and  since  the  me  is  what  we  are  immediately  conscious  of, 
the  not-me  intermediately,  we  have  the  correlative 

Possible  Actual 

and  these  give  us  clearly  the 

Ideal  Real 

and  so  on.  Now  let  us  put  our  metrical  matters  into  this 
same  nomenclature  :  We  find  that  the  rime  is  the  regular 
element  in  verse,  and  that  Shakspere  balances  it  with  its 
opposite  irregular  element,  and  we  have  as  regularity  ele- 
ment. 

Rime  used  Rime  disused 

and  similar 

End-stopped  Line  Run-on  Line 

Strong-ending  Line  Weak-ending  Line 

Single-ending  Line  Double-ending  Line 

Regular  Accent  Irregular  Accent 

Here  we  have  the  task  of  the  three  next  and  concluding 
lectures  of  this  course  marked  out  plainly  before  our  eyes. 
It  is  proposed  to  prove  (i)  that  the  very  same  advance 
which  has  been  revealed  by  the  Metrical  Tests  between  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  Shakspere's  career  in  his  verse- 
technic  is  clearly  revealed  to  us  in  his  character ;  (2)  that 
just  as  we  saw  Shakspere  more  artistically  balancing  the 
necessary  oppositions  of  verse-structure  in  The  'Tempest^ 
1 610,  than  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  1590,  so  we 
can  clearly  see  him  more  artistically  balancing  those  oppo- 
sitions in  life  and  in  morals  which  go  to  make  up  charac- 
ter-structure if  we  rightly  investigate  his  utterances ;  in 
short,  that  Shakspere's  advance  in  art  and  his  advance  in 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS 


249 


morals  is  one  and  the  same  growth,  resulting  in  this  direc- 
tion as  a  finer  verse-structure,  in  that  direction  as  a  finer 
character-structure. 

And  now,  to  prove  this  theorem,  let  us  take  the  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream^  which  we  can  prove  by  all  sorts  of 
evidence,  positive,  indirect,  external,  internal,  metrical 
tests,  higher  tests,  and  all,  to  represent  Shakspere's  first 
period,  and  let  us  contrast  this  with  T'he  '■tempest^  which 
we  can  prove  nearly  as  conclusively  to  represent  his  last 
period.  Note  that  never  were  two  ends  of  an  artist's  life 
so  beautifully  framed  for  a  contrast  as  these  two  plays. 
It  will  give  definite  direction  to  our  appreciation  of  this  if 
we  reflect  (as  outlined  in  a  previous  lecture)  that  there  are 
three  comprehensive  directions  in  which  we  may  trace  a 
man's  view  of  the  world  :  in  the  direction  of  the  lower, 
that  is,  his  views  of  man's  relations  towards  nature  ;  the 
level  direction,  that  is,  his  views  of  man's  relations  towards 
his  fellow-man  ;  and  the  higher  direction,  that  is,  his  views 
of  man's  relations  towards  God. 


God 


Nature 


Fell 


ow-man 


?i595 

1602 

1610 

Dream  Period 

Real  Period 

Ideal  Period 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

Hamlet 

The  Tempest 

Now  it  so  happens  that  these  two  plays.  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  and  The  Tempest^  contain  just  the  material 
for  deducing  Shakspere's  ideas  upon  these  points.  In 
both    we    have   man's    relation    towards    nature, —  nature 


250    SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

tricksy  in  the  Puck  and  Oberon  ot  the  one,  nature  con- 
quered and  drawing  water  for  man  in  the  allayed  tempest 
and  the  monster  servant  Cahban  of  the  other ;  again,  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  shows  us  man's  relations  to 
man  in  the  twist  and  cross  of  love  which  never  runs 
smooth  (this  famous  quotation  is  from  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream)y  while  The  'Tempest  shows  us  the  same  re- 
lations to  one's  fellow-men  in  the  affairs  of  power,  of  ambi- 
tion, of  state,  of  fatherhood,  of  love,  of  forgiveness,  and 
so  on.  And,  to  make  their  fitness  for  comparison  grow  to 
the  exquisite  degree,  both  these  plays  are  a  sort  of  fairy- 
tales, admitting  unbounded  freedom  of  treatment  and  un- 
shackled by  any  such  considerations  of  time  or  place  or 
environment  as  would  prevent  Shakspere  from  giving  his 
full  and  untrammelled  utterance. 

In  the  next  three  lectures,  then,  we  will  see  what  we  can 
find  of  Shakspere's  opinions  in  these  three  great  relations 
of  man.  And  finally,  if  this  discussion  shall  then  be 
allowed  to  have  made  out  its  case,  if  we  shall  then  find 
this  artistic  and  moral  advance  thus  inseparable,  we  may 
recognise  that  supreme  value  of  the  poet  which  was  posited 
at  the  beginning  of  these  lectures.  For  we  must  then 
find  that  it  is  he  who  balances  these  terrible  oppositions  of 
life,  balances  them,  not  in  ignorance,  not  by  shutting  his 
eyes  upon  them,  but  by  that  enormous  faith  which,  seeing 
them,  is  not  dismayed.  It  is  he,  the  poet,  who  moves 
with  level  eye  down  this  lane  of  life  hedged  about  with 
these  mysteries,  and  keeps  Love  and  Reconciliation  alive 
with  art  and  music.  It  is  our  Shakspere  who,  when  we 
find  him,  after  his  dream  of  Youth  here,  after  his  terrible 
shock  with  the  Real  here  in  Hamlet, —  using  his  art  to 
allay  tempests  and  to  bring  all  things  right  and  to  set  forth 
Prospero's  prodigious  forgiveness  of  his  brother's  injury, — 


THE    METRICAL   TESTS 


251 


It  is  our  Shakspere  who  then  makes  us  cry,  amid  the  heart- 
breaking perplexities  of  life's  oppositions  and  complex 
antagonisms,  Sursum  corda  !  Here  is  a  poet  who  met  these 
oppositions  and  managed  them  ;  and  do  but  listen  to  our  Shak- 
spere singing  in  the  dark  I 


CHAPTER   XXII 

MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    THE    SUPERNATURAL   AS 

SHOWN   IN    "MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM," 

"HAMLET,"    AND    "THE   TEMPEST" 


N  the  last  lecture  not  only  did  two 
trains  of  discussion  come  fairly  to- 
gether and  coalesce,  but  a  number  of 
other  strands  of  thought  which  have 
been  presenting  their  ends  here  and 
there  twined  into  the  main  result. 
Permit  me  for  a  single  moment  to 
present  this  coalescence  of  all  our  in- 
quiries freshly  before  your  minds  from  a  common  point  of 
view,  as  affording  the  proper  light  in  which  we  are  now  to 
contrast  these  wonderful  plays  of  Shakspere. 

You  remember  that  as  we  studied  those  phenomena  of 
sound  which  are  connoted  under  the  term  Verse,  we 
found  that  all  our  three  largest  classifications  —  the  Tunes 
of  Verse,  the  Rhythms  of  Verse,  and  the  Colours  of  Verse 
—  were  in  reality  due  to  rhythmic  vibration  in  various 
forms,  and,  going  further,  we  found  that  all  rhythmic  vi- 
bration seemed  to  be  produced  by  the  Opposition  of 
Forces.  In  short,  after  having  viewed  a  great  many 
technical   details    of  verse-construction,  the    outcome    ap- 

252 


MAN    AND    THE   SUPERNATURAL     253 

peared  to  be  that  the  poet,  in  arranging  the  tunes  of  verse, 
the  rhythms  of  verse,  and  the  colours  of  verse,  was  simply 
managing  a  diverse  set  of  vibrations,  that  is,  of  oppositions 
—  managing  these  as  the  material  of  his  poetic  art.  The 
diagram 

Tunes  of  Verse 

Rhythms  of  Verse      V  =  Vibrations  =  Oppositions 

Colours  of  Verse 

brings  this  outcome  clearly  before  your  mind. 

But  then  the  theory  of  oppositions  came  upon  us  from 
quite  another  direction.  In  two  lectures  we  studied  the 
Metrical  Tests  ;  and  having  examined  Shakspere's  early 
verse  as  compared  with  his  late  verse  by  these  tests,  we 
found  that  his  whole  progress  as  an  artist  in  versification 
was  towards  a  more  artistic  management  of  oppositions^  these 
oppositions  being  a  wholly  different  set  from  those  last 
named,  a  set  depending  upon  the  singular  esthetic  de- 
mands of  the  ear  in  listening  to  series  of  sounds.  We 
found  that  the  ear  demanded  regularity  in  verse-structure : 
but  that  it  also  demanded  with  equal  rigour  the  very  op- 
posite of  that,  namely,  irregularity ;  and  since  by  the  rime 
test  we  found  Shakspere  ever  more  artistically  balan- 
cing the  rime  line,  which  represented  regularity,  against  the 
blank  line,  which  represented  its  opposite  irregularity,  the 
end-stopped  line  (regularity)  against  run-on  line  (irregu- 
larity), 
single-ending  (regularity)  against  double-ending  (irregu- 
larity), 
strong-ending  (regularity)  against  weak-ending  (irregu- 
larity), 
normal  accent  (regularity)  against  abnormal  accent  (irregu- 
larity). 


>  =  Oppositions 


254     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

we  were  here  led  to  contemplate  Shakspere's  artistic 
management  of  a  wholly  different  set  of  oppositions,  these 
being  the  oppositions  of  the  esthetic  demands  of  the  ear, 
instead  of,  as  before,  the  oppositions  of  forces,  which 
result  in  periodic  or  rhythmic  vibration.  The  next 
diagram  here,  then,  will  present  this  outcome  clearly  to 
your  eyes,  viz.: 

Rimed  vs.  Blank  Line 

End-stopped       vs.  Run-on  Line 
Single-ending      vs.  Double-ending 
Strong-ending     vs.  Weak-ending 
Normal  Accent  vs.  Abnormal  Accent/ 

Thus  we  discovered  that  Shakspere  grew  all  the  time 
in  the  artistic  management  of  these  verse-oppositions. 

We  are  now  to  go  on  and  show,  by  the  comparison  of 
these  plays,  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  as  representa- 
tive of  Shakspere's  youthful  period,  and  'The  'Tempest  as 
representative  of  his  perfectly  mature  period,  that  just  as 
he  advanced  in  the  artistic  management  of  these  rhythmical 
oppositions,  so  he  advanced  in  the  artistic  management  of 
those  moral  oppositions  which  make  up  human  life  as 
these  esthetic  and  physical  oppositions  make  up  verse. 
And  we  are  to  see  if  it  is  not,  after  all,  the  same  exaltation 
of  faculty,  or  genius,  which  arrives  at  supreme  excellence 
in  the  due  ordering  of  moral  oppositions  with  that  which 
arrives  at  supreme  excellence  in  the  due  ordering  of 
esthetic  oppositions. 

It  will  add  a  valuable  weight  of  cumulative  evidence  to 
this  now  pending  inquiry  if  I  here  ask  your  notice  of  a 


MAN   AND    THE   SUPERNATURAL     255 

still  different  set  of  artistic  oppositions  which  Shakspere 
clearly  learned  better  and  better  how  to  manage  as  he 
grew  older.  These  are  the  oppositions  of  character  against 
character,  of  figure  against  figure,  of  event  against  event, 
which  are  arranged  with  so  much  more  freedom  in  later 
plays  than  in  earlier  ones.  You  observe  that  all  these 
oppositions  here  in  our  diagrams  concern  Shakspere's  art 
as  verse-maker :  the  oppositions  I  now  speak  of  concern 
his  art  as  drama-maker,  as  playwright.  Notice  in  how 
many  of  the  early  comedies  there  is  a  suspicion  of  stiffness, 
arising  from  the  tendency  to  present  every  figure  in  the 
play  with  a  kind  of  contrasting  figure  or  foil  to  set  it  off, 
or  at  least  with  a  kind  of  echo  or  companion.  For  ex- 
ample, in  "The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  we  have  Valen- 
tine, the  symbol  of  constancy  in  love,  set  off  with  his 
contrast  and  foil,  Proteus,  the  symbol  of  inconstancy ;  the 
one  is  named  from  the  Valentine  of  St.  Valentine's  day, 
you  observe,  the  other  from  the  old  Proteus  of  the  Greek 
mythus  who  changed  his  shape  at  will  and  so  represented 
the  inconstant  lover.  Further,  we  have  Speed,  the  servant 
of  Valentine,  set  over  against  Launce,  the  servant  of  Pro- 
teus ;  and  so  on.  Again,  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors  we  have 
Antipholus  of  Ephesus  and  his  servant  Dromio  of  Ephe- 
sus  set  over  against  their  twins  Antipholus  of  Syracuse 
and  Dromio  of  Syracuse.  Again,  in  Love's  Labour  s  Lost 
we  have  King  Ferdinand  set  over  against  the  Princess, 
Biron  against  Rosaline,  Dumain  against  Katherine,  Longa- 
ville  against  Maria,  Armado  against  Jaquenetta,  and  so 
on,  till  at  the  last  the  whole  company  go  off  in  pairs, 
every  Jack  having  his  Jill.  Again,  in  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  we  have  Theseus  against  Hippolyta,  Lysander 
against  Hermia,  Demetrius  against  Helena,  by  way  of 
echoes  ;  and,  by  way  of  foils,  a  group  of  clowns  against  a 
group  of  fairies,  a   rude    ass    against  a  dainty    queen,  a 


256     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

tragedy  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  turned  into  its  opposing 
farce,  and  so  on;  while  —  to  cite  no  more  examples  —  in 
Romeo  and  "Juliet  we  have  the  enmity  of  Montague  and 
Capulet  set  off  against  the  love  of  Montague  and  Capulet, 
bridal  scene  set  off  against  burial  scene,  love  against  death. 
In  short,  at  first,  if  we  narrowly  scrutinise  Shakspere's 
early  management  of  his  oppositions  as  playwright,  we 
perceive  everywhere  a  tendency  of  things  to  go  in  pairs, 
to  move  by  twos,  in  short,  a  tendency  towards  direct  and 
pronounced  oppositions.  But  if  we  consider  the  later 
plays  with  reference  to  this  matter,  there  is  a  clear  advance 
towards  less  pronounced  pairing  of  figures  and  events,  in 
short,  towards  less  direct  oppositions.  There  are  still 
oppositions  of  this  sort ;  there  must  be  :  the  esthetic  sense 
of  proportion  in  the  spectator  demands  them,  just  as  the 
esthetic  sense  of  the  ear  demands  these  other  oppositions. 
But  also,  in  the  present  series  of  oppositions,  we  find,  as  I 
said,  Shakspere  using  more  art  in  ordering  these  play- 
wright's oppositions,  more  temperately  and  exquisitely 
adjusting  figure  to  figure  and  foil  to  foil,  when  we  come  to 
the  later  plays,  just  as  we  found  him  exercising  precisely 
the  same  temperance  and  wise  control  in  ordering  the 
oppositions  of  effect  in  verse-technic.  This  relation  of 
the  stiff  oppositions  of  the  early  plays  to  the  freer  and 
more  graceful  oppositions  of  the  later  plays  may  be  very 
clearly  illustrated  to  the  eye  by  asking  one's  self,  if  we  had 
two  lines  to  arrange  in  the  most  pleasant  relations  to  each 
other, —  the  most  pleasant  relations,  that  is,  for  satisfying 
the  eye's  sense  of  proportion, —  how  should  we  go  about 
it  ?  Well,  Shakspere  goes  about  it  in  the  early  plays  by 
making  both  lines  exactly  equal  in  length  and  laying  one 
exactly  athwart  the  middle  of  the  other,  presenting  the 
effect  of  this  cross  to  the  eye  : 


MAN   AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL     257 


T" 


while  in  the  later  plays  he  arranges  them,  with  a  more 
delicate  sense  of  proportion,  in  a  form  much  more  pleasing 
to  the  eye,  by  abolishing  the  direct,  flat  opposition  of 
equal  hne  to  equal  line  and  centre  to  centre  and  direction 
to  direction,  and  taming  it  down,  as  it  were,  with  the  sub- 
stitution of  a  shorter  line  for  the  crossing  one,  and  the 
moving  up  of  the  crossing-point  to  a  place  where  every 
eye  will  take  more  pleasure  in  the  figure,  like  this : 


Now,  then,  in  going  on  to  look  at  these  plays,  we  shall 
find,  I  think,  that  the  same  miraculous  sense  of  propor- 
tion which  has  resulted  in  the  finer  ordering  of  these 
versecraft  oppositions  and  these  playwright's  oppositions 
results,  too,  in  the  finer  ordering  of  the  moral  oppositions 
of  life.  Let  us  see  if  this  be  not  so  by  contrasting  the 
views  of  life  presented  here  in  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream 
with  those  in  'The  Tempest,  linking  both  to  the  inter- 
mediate view  in  Hamlet. 

Here   I  will   write   the   succession   of  these   plays,  in 


258     SHAKSPERE  AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

order  that  their  relations  in  time  might  be  clearly  before 
your  eyes  : 

1595  1602  1610 

Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream  Hamlet  The  Tempest 

Here,  you  observe,  we  have  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream y 
dating  about  1595  ;  and  if  you  will  recall  the  more  extended 
chronology  which  was  developed  during  the  last  two  lec- 
tures, you  will  observe  that  this  date  1595  may  be  called 
the  full  flush  of  Shakspere's  youthful  period  as  a  writer, 
when  he  had  passed  beyond  the  raw  inexperience  of  his 
first  attempts  as  playwright,  and  had  certainly  gathered  his 
powers  together  sufficiently  to  express  his  whole  thought 
of  that  time  with  marvellous  force  and  beauty.  We  may 
therefore  regard  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  as  beauti- 
fully representative  of  the  very  heyday  of  his  youthful 
period ;  and  so  we  may  regard  Hamlet  as  representative 
of  his  Dark  Period,  when  the  rude  shock  of  the  real  had 
come  upon  him  ;  and  The  Tempest  as  equally  representative 
of  that  wondrous  period  of  calm  when  he  had  conquered 
the  real,  when  he  had  learned  to  forgive,  when  he  showed 
his  whole  state  of  mind  in  that  group  of  plays  which  hinge 
upon  reconciliation  and  forgiveness  of  injuries —  Cymbeline^ 
Winter  s  Tale^  Tempest^  Henry  ///,  and  so  on.  I  should 
have  liked  to  array  before  you  all  the  evidences,  external 
and  internal,  of  the  precise  dates  here  given ;  but  this 
would  have  involved  an  indulgence  in  minute  scholarship 
which  would  not  have  suited  such  a  course  as  the  present, 
and,  even  passing  this  objection,  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  devote  so  much  time  as  would  be  required  for 
a  matter  which  of  itself  has  a  voluminous  literature.  So 
perhaps  it  will  suffice  as  to  the  question  of  dates  if  I  say 
as  to  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  that  its  date  is  quite 
clearly  fixed  for  us  within  certain  limits  through  its  men- 


MAN    AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL     259 

tion  by  Francis  Meres  in  his  Palladis  Tamia,  JVits  'Trea- 
sury^ published  in  1598,  where  he  speaks  of  it  as  if  it  were 
an  already  well-known  play  of  Shakspere's.  We  thus 
know  positively  that  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  was 
written  before  1598;  various  scholars  have  assigned  it 
various  places  within  that  period  :  the  New  Shakspere  So- 
ciety, building  upon  various  evidences,  places  it  as  early  as 
1590-91,  Mr.  Fleay  puts  it  in  1592,  Drake  has  it  1593, 
Malone  i  594,  Stokes  1 595  (upon  what  seems  to  me  a  very 
rational  view  of  all  the  evidences),  and  Gervinus  also  in 
1595,  We  are  therefore  perfectly  safe  in  assuming  that 
the  enormous  weight  of  scholarly  opinion  is  clearly  in 
favour  of  a  date  at  least  by  1595,  if  not  earlier. 

Again,  in  the  case  of  Hamlet :  while  Stokes  gives  1 599 
as  the  date  when  it  was  written  and  1600  the  date  of  its 
revision  by  Shakspere,  Malone  gives  1600,  Mr.  Fleay 
1 601,  and  Gervinus,  Delius,  and  the  New  Shakspere 
Society  agree  in  assigning  the  date  1602  ;  so  that,  while — 
as  you  will  please  carefully  observe  —  either  of  those  dates 
would  subserve  the  purpose  of  the  present  demonstration 
(which  only  requires  Hamlet  to  have  been  written  about 
1600),  and  you  see  from  the  dates  I  have  just  given  that 
the  whole  consensus  of  scholarship  does  point  to  about 
that  period,  perhaps  we  may  fairly  assume  the  weight  of 
opinion  to  favour  the  date  1602,  which  is  well  on  into  the 
Dark  Period,  when  he  was  writing  all  those  grim  and  bitter 
tragedies  of  Othello,  Lear,  Macbeth,  Timon  of  Athens, 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  and  the  like. 

And  lastly,  in  the  case  of  The  Tempest,  there  are  such 
positive  external  and  quasi-external  evidences  pointing  to 
about  the  year  16 10  as  that  in  which  Shakspere  wrote  it 
that  I  find  Stokes,  Fleay,  the  New  Shakspere  Society, 
Gervinus,  Delius,  Malone,  and  Drake  all  fixing  indepen- 
dently upon  i6ioor   1611,  while  Chalmers  fixes  upon  a 


26o     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

date  so  late  as  1613.  Personally  I  am  well  disposed 
towards  1613,  but  certainly  the  overwhelming  weight  of 
scholarship  is  in  favour  of  16 10  or  161  i. 

In  the  order  of  time,  then,  which  is  here  given  we  may 
consider  ourselves  upon  a  safe  basis  for  judgments  as  to 
Shakspere's  growth.  The  keenest  scholarship,  the  freest 
discussion,  the  widest  search  for  external  evidence,  the 
most  careful  checking  of  conclusions  by  the  Metrical 
Tests  one  after  another,  have  all  been  applied  to  establish 
this  general  succession  in  time  of  these  three  plays  ;  and  it 
is  not  in  the  least  necessary  to  commit  ourselves  to  the 
exact  years  here  given  in  order  to  feel  sure  that  these  three 
plays  represent  three  perfectly  distinct  epochs,  separated 
from  each  other  by  several  years,  in  Shakspere's  spiritual 
existence. 

Leaving,  then,  the  question  of  chronology  with  satis- 
faction to  this  extent,  mark,  now, —  by  way  of  a  sweeping 
outline  which  we  will  presently  fill  out  with  details  and 
support  with  citations, —  mark  how  completely  these  three 
plays  form  perfect  types  of  three  periods  which  inexorably 
occur  in  the  life  of  every  man,  distinctly  marked  in  the 
life  of  the  man  who  thinks,  vaguely  but  no  less  really  in 
the  life  of  the  most  thoughtless.  Here  is  the  young 
Shakspere's  view  of  life  :  his  thought  is  mainly  upon  love 
and  acting,  hence  Theseus  and  Hippolyta,  hence  Lysander 
and  Hermia  and  Demetrius  and  Helena,  hence  Bottom 
and  Snout  and  their  fellow-players;  his  eye,  though  a  young 
eye,  is  sufficiently  keen  to  have  seen  already  that  love 
does  not  run  smoothly,  that  many  a  popular  stage-play  is 
as  absurd  as  Pyramus  and  ThisbCy  that  many  a  popular 
actor,  or  popular  poet,  who  has  come  to  be  the  fashion 
and  has  got  the  world  in  love  with  him,  is  no  more  than 
a  Bottom  with  an  ass's  head  on  his  shoulders,  so  that 
Titania  coying  the  ass's  cheeks  is  but  the  sight  so  often 


MAN    AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL     261 

seen  when  the  world  Is  petting  a  popular  statesman,  or 
actor,  or  poet,  who  will  presently  go  out  of  fashion  and  be 
as  much  despised  by  succeeding  ages  as  Bottom  will  be 
when  Titania's  eyes  are  uncharmed  :  in  short,  the  young 
eye  already  sees  the  twist  and  cross  of  life,  but  sees  it  as 
in  a  dream  :  and  those  of  you  who  are  old  enough  to  look 
back  upon  your  own  young  dream  of  life  will  recognise 
instantly  that  the  dream  is  the  only  term  which  represents 
that  unspeakable  seeing  of  things  without  in  the  least  realis- 
ing them  which  brings  about  that  the  youth  admits  all  we 
tell  him  —  we  older  ones  —  about  life  and  the  future,  and, 
admitting  it  fully,  nevertheless  goes  on  right  in  the  face  of 
it  to  act  just  as  if  he  knew  nothing  of  it.  In  short,  he 
sees  as  in  a  dream.  It  is  the  Dream  Period.  But  here 
suddenly  the  dream  is  done.  The  real  pinches  the  young 
dreamer  and  he  awakes.  This,  too,  is  typical.  Every 
man  remembers  the  time  in  his  own  life,  somewhere  from 
near  thirty  to  forty,  when  the  actual  oppositions  of  life 
came  out  before  him  and  refused  to  be  danced  over  and 
stared  him  grimly  in  the  face  :  God  or  no  God,  faith  or  no 
faith,  death  or  no  death,  honesty  or  policy,  men  good 
or  men  evil,  the  Church  holy  or  the  Church  a  fraud,  life 
worth  living  or  life  not  worth  living  —  this,  I  say,  is  the 
shock  of  the  real,  this  is  the  Hamlet  period  in  every 
man's  life. 

And  finally, —  to  finish  this  outline, — just  as  the  man 
settles  all  these  questions  shocked  upon  him  by  the  real, 
will  be  his  Ideal  Period.  If  he  finds  that  the  proper  man- 
agement of  these  grim  oppositions  of  life  is  by  goodness, 
by  humility,  by  love,  by  the  fatherly  care  of  a  Prospero 
for  his  daughter  Miranda,  by  the  human  tenderness  of  a 
Prospero  finding  all  his  enemies  in  his  power  and  forgiv- 
ing their  bitter  injuries  and  practising  his  art  to  right  the 
wrongs  of  men  and  to  bring  all  evil  beginnings  to  happy 


262     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

issues,  then  his  Ideal  Period  is  fitly  represented  by  this 
heavenly  play  in  which,  as  you  recall  its  plot,  you  recognise 
all  these  elements.  Shakspere  has  unquestionably  emerged 
from  the  cold  paralysing  doubts  of  Hamlet  into  the  human 
tenderness  and  perfect  love  and  faith  of  The  Tempest^  a 
faith  which  can  look  clearly  upon  all  the  wretched  crimes 
and  follies  of  the  crew  of  time,  and  still  be  tender  and  lov- 
ing and  faithful.  In  short,  he  has  learned  to  manage  the 
Hamlet  antagonisms,  to  adjust  the  moral  oppositions,  with 
the  same  artistic  sense  of  proportion  with  which  we  saw 
him  managing  and  adjusting  the  verse-oppositions  and  the 
figure-oppositions. 

And  now,  with  this  general  direction  of  Shakspere's 
moral  growth  before  us,  let  us  descend  to  some  details  of 
it  as  they  shine  out  in  these  plays.  And  remembering 
the  useful  division  of  man's  possible  relations  in  life  as 
given  in  the  last  lecture,  let  us  inquire.  What  is  the  attitude 
of  man  towards  the  supernatural  in  these  three  plays  ? 

Beginning  with  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream^  clearly 
man  is  the  sport  of  vague,  unseen  powers,  of  the  powers  of 
Nature.  It  must  be  observed  with  the  greatest  care,  for 
proper  views  on  this  matter,  that  there  is  a  sense  of  the 
word  Nature  in  which  it  means  exactly  the  supernatural, 
and  perhaps  this  is  the  most  common  sense  in  which  it  is 
thought  by  many  persons.  Those  who  have  vague  beliefs, 
or  who  do  not  wish  to  specify  their  beliefs  at  the  particular 
moment,  will  say,  for  example,  that  Nature  has  made  man 
thus  and  so,  or  Nature  has  arranged  this  and  that  order, 
or  that  such  a  matter  is  a  law  of  Nature  —  meaning,  you 
observe,  always  what  is  meant  by  the  supernatural  when 
other  senses  of  the  word  Nature  are  thought.  Now  this 
purposely  vague  use  of  Nature  by  one  who  has  a  vague 
belief  is  exactly  the  conception  of  the  dreaming  youth,  and 
here   in    the    Midsummer   Night's   Dream    the    powers    of 


MAN    AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL     263 

Nature  are  playing  with  man  as  the  supernatural,  some- 
times crossing  him,  sometimes  blessing  him,  but  with  no 
reason  or  order  in  either  cross  or  blessing.  The  logical 
outcome  of  it,  here,  is  simply  chance.  Chance  is  Oberon 
and  Puck  and  Titania :  Lysander  loves  Hermia  and 
Demetrius  loves  Hermia;  Helena  loves  Demetrius  and 
Demetrius  hates  Helena.  Presently  a  chance  mistake  of 
the  careless  minister  of  chance.  Puck,  reverses  these  con- 
ditions, and  things  are  more  hopelessly  twisted  than  ever: 
Demetrius  dotes  on  Helena,  Helena  dotes  on  Lysander, 
Titania  dotes  on  an  ass  ;  the  whole  world  of  love  is  awry, 
and  a  laughing  or  bad-humoured  spirit  working  it  all,  no 
reason  guiding  him,  nothing  but  caprice  for  a  conscience. 

In  short,  here  is  no  formulated  faith  at  all  in  Shak- 
spere.  Why  have  any  faith  ?  What  is  faith  ?  He  does  not 
know  the  meaning  of  it.  The  world  is  rich  ;  life  is  full.  If 
there  is  a  twist  and  a  contradiction  in  things,  why,  come 
forward,  imagination  ;  I  will  build  me  a  better  world.  Down 
with  care  and  dismal  thought  and  death  ;  this  is  May-time  ; 
let  us  go  forth  into  the  greenwood  and  do  our  observance. 
Such  seems  the  final  utterance  of  this  dream  :  no  belief 
formulated,  and,  if  the  logical  result  should  be  drawn, — 
though  he  has  not  had  time  to  draw  it,  of  course, — 
nothing  but  a  Puck  and  an  Oberon  at  the  helm  of  things, 
the  one  tricksy  by  nature,  the  other  peevish  or  smiling  as 
the  humour  takes  him  —  in  short,  chance  regnant. 

But  here  life  arises,  puts  out  a  stern  finger,  and  says 
to  our  young  Shakspere :  "  Answer  me  these  questions 
straightway:  What  is  death,  and  why  is  it  ?  How  comes  it 
that  the  Omnipotent  allows  such  crimes  as  the  murder  of 
Denmark's  king  by  the  wife  of  his  bosom  ?  What  is  the 
ministry  of  revenge  in  this  life  ?  How  far  may  a  man  pay  off 
murder  with  murder  ?  What  is  duty  to  a  time  out  of  joint  ? 
What  is  love,  what  is  religion,  what  is  the  soul,  what  is  the 


264     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

grave  ?  Answer  me  !  The  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth."  And  what  answers  Hamlet? 
From  beginnnig  to  end  he  never  really  makes  up  his  mind. 
Hamlet  is  morally  an  interrogation-point.  He  answers 
'  life's  question  by  asking  another  question  :  Ought  I  to  do 
this  or  that  ?  To  be  or  not  to  be  ?  Shall  I  believe  this  Ghost 
or  doubt  him?  Shall  1  stab  the  King  or  not  stab  him  ?  Shall  I 
be  insane  or  shall  I  not  be  insane  ?  Ought  I  to  avoid  this 
awful  mission  of  setting  right  a  disjointed  time,  or  accept 
it  ?  ^  Thus  the  real  thrusts  at  Hamlet,  and  Hamlet 
thrusts  not  back,  but  leaps  aside.  Perhaps,  with  all  the 
floods  of  Hamlet  commentary  and  Hamlet  literature,  this 
absolute  lack  of  belief,  combined  with  the  yearning  belief  that 
he  does  believe^  in  Hamlet,  has  never  been  properly  in- 
sisted on.  Permit  me  to  call  your  attention  to  a  very 
clear  and  striking  instance  of  it.  Let  us  analyse  Hamlet's 
thought  in  the  soliloquy,  and  then  lay  it  alongside  his 
thought  at  a  very  important  moment  only  a  little  while 
afterward.  First,  he  is  pondering  the  question  of  the 
after-death  —  to  be  or  not  to  be  ?  And  the  outcome  of  his 
pondering  is  simply  that  we  do  not  and  cannot  know  what 
comes   after  death  ;    that    that    absolute    and    inexorable 

1  The  French  proverb  says  Q^ui parte  thought.      The  proverb  means  the 

//i/f,/)cr/^^/7/;f  (Who  bears  a  sword,  peace  of  defeat,  Christ's  utterance 

bears  peace).      But  it  is  in  a  very  the  peace  of  victory.      And  compare 

different   sense    that    Christ   antici-  with  either  of  these  the  cowardly 

pated  this  saying  when  he  declares,  Hamlet's  cry  :  "  The  time  is  out  of 

I  comenot  to  bringpeace,  but  a  sword,  joint:    O  cursed  spite.  That  ever  I 

The  proverb   refers  to   that  peace  was  born  to  set  it  right  !  "     Cf.  old 

which  comes  from   dread  of  one's  Gabriel    Harvey's  saying:    "It    is 

neighbour's  sword,  Christ  to    that  enough  for  one,  yea,  for  the  best  one, 

which  results  from  struggle  against  to    carry   the    burthen    of  his    own 

old  superstition  and  final  emergence  transgressions  and  errors.  " 
into  the  serenity  of  higher  planes  of 


/ 


The  Tragicall  Hiftoric  of 

HAMLET 

Prince  of  Denmarke,  ' 


riling  cn/t^  iien\ 
Enter  trfo  Qentinth.   J  '^niiiruc: 


J 


.':S' 


Tand:  who  b  that? 
Tis,L 

1.  .Oyou^onaemoft  carefully  vpon  your  watch, 
I            2.  Andifyounicetc/I/4rctf//«/and//ffrrf/«?, 

[   •        The  partncrrofmyw^Uch,  bid  them  make  hade. 

5     •        1.  1  will :  Sec  who  goes  there. 

(  Snter  Horntio  and  MurctHHt, 

\  Her.  Friends  to  this  ground. 

\  ■         M^r.  And  Icegemen  to  the  Dane, 

\  O  farewell  honed  fouldier ,  who  hath  relccucd  you? 

I  I .  Bdirndrdo  hath  my  place,  giue  you  good  night. 

f  Mar.   Holla,  Bamardo. 

1*  Say,  is  Hsratio  there? 
^'  Hor.   Apccccofhim. 

!  2.    WeIco:ne  Hordtia^  welcome  good  M4reeUfU^ 

AiAr,  ,  What  hath  this  thing  appcar'd  againe  to  night 

2.  I  haucfcenc  nothing. 

May.  Hortuio  faycs  tis  but  our  fantafic, " 
And  wil  not  let  beliefe  take  hold  of  him. 
Touching  this  dreaded  fight  twice  feenc  by  vr> 

B  .  •        There- 


i 


First  page  of  Original  Edition  of  "  Hamlet  " 


MAN    AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL     265 

ignorance  is  the  very  respect  that  makes  calamity  of  so  long 
life,  as  against  suicide  which  could  end  it : 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
Th'  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  pangs  of  despis'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes. 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?   who  would  these  fardels  bear. 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life. 
But  that  the  dread  of  something 

(something —  what  we  know  not) 

after  death. 
The  undiscover'd  country  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will. 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

But  in  a  httle  while  we  find  that  Hamlet  does  not  really 
believe  we  are  so  ignorant  of  what  is  to  happen  after  death  : 
we  find  that  death  is  so  far  from  being  an  undiscovered 
country  to  him  that  he  really  believes,  or  believes  he  be- 
lieves, that  we  know  all  about  it.  For  look  what  he  pres- 
ently does,  and  argues.  The  'To  be  soliloquy  is  in  Act  III, 
Scene  I  ;  presently  in  Scene  III,  that  is,  only  two  scenes 
farther  on  in  the  same  act,  Hamlet,  on  the  way  to  his 
mother  for  that  dreadful  interview,  comes  unawares  behind 
the  guilty  King,  who  is  kneeling  at  his  prayers.  If  Ham- 
let ever  desired  to  put  this  monster  out  of  the  way,  now  is 
the  time  :  but  he  does  not  stab  him  ;  and  why  ?  Why, 
because,  as  he  alleges,  of  a  perfectly  clear  conviction  as  to 
what  will  happen  to  the  King  after  deaths  a  point  which  a 
moment  ago  he  said  neither  he  nor  any  other  man  had  or 


266     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

could  have  any  clear  convictions  on  at  all.  Hear  him, 
with  the  soliloquy  in  your  mind.  As  Hamlet,  pacing  along 
the  corridor  towards  his  mother's  room,  suddenly  finds  the 
King  there  praying,  his  back  turned  to  Hamlet,  absorbed, 
unconscious  of  an  enemy,  defenceless,  the  thought  rushes 
over  him  and  stops  him  like  a  shot,  kill  him  now.  Now, 
he  says, 

might  I  do  it  pat,  now  he  is  praying; 
And  now  I'll  do't :  and  so  he  goes  to  heaven  : 
And  so  am  I  reveng'd  ?      That  would  be  scann'd : 
A  villain  kills  my  father ;   and  for  that, 
I,  his  sole  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven. 

Why,  this  is  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge. 
.   .   .   And  am  I  then  reveng'd. 
To  take  him  in  the  purging  of  his  soul, 
When  he  is  fit  and  season'd  for  his  passage  ? 

(That  is,  in  saying  his  prayers.) 
No. 

Up,  sword,  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  bent : 
When  he  is  drunk,  asleep,  or  in  his  rage,   .   .   . 
At  gaming,  swearing,  or  about  some  act 
That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in't ; 
Then  trip  him,  that  his  heels  may  kick  at  heaven 
And  that  his  soul  may  be  as  damn'd  and  black 
As  hell,  whereto  it  goes. 

Just  now  death  was  an  undiscovered  country  ;  we  knew 
and  could  know  nothing  of  what  happens  in  it :  now  we 
know  all  about  it;  we  know  heaven  and  hell;  we  know 
that  if  a  villain  be  killed  while  he  is  saying  his  prayers  he 
will  go  to  heaven,  and  that  if  he  be  killed  while  he  is 
asleep  he  will  go  to  hell;  and  I  Hamlet  believe  that  I 
believe  this,  and  so  I  will  not  take  this  opportunity  for 
revenge.      Nay,    how    absurd    is    Hamlet's   undiscovered 


MAN    AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL     267 

country    from    which    no    traveller    returns,    when    even 
now   the   ghost  of  his  father,  who  had  travelled  beyond 
death,  returns^  and  discovers  to  Hamlet  how  he  is  doomed 
to  walk  for  a  certain  time,  and  so  on  !     Thus  we  see  that 
the  key  to   Hamlet's    character   is  that  half-belief  which 
does  not  know  that  it  believes,  but  only  believes  that  it 
believes,  and  so  twists  its  belief  from  moment  to  moment 
to  suit  its  mood,  and  hence  a  thousand   inconsistencies. 
This  shifting  the  belief  to  suit  the  desire,  this  half-belief 
which  is  worse  than  no  belief,  seems  wonderfully  charac- 
teristic of  our  present  age,  and  well  may  it  be  called  the 
Hamlet  age.      I  do  not  know  how  I  can  better  illustrate 
this  curious  and  puzzling  state,  which  is  so  characteristic  of 
much  that  we  flatter  as  belief,  than  by  recalling  an  incident 
which  occurred  a  short  time  ago,  and  which  seemed  to  me 
to  illustrate  a  whole  belief,  the  opposite  of  Hamlet's  half- 
belief,  in  a  most  admirable  manner.     Four  or  five  years 
ago  I  happened  to  be  in  St.  Augustine  when  a  party  of 
Indians  arrived  who  had  been  captured  in  the  West  and 
sent  to  this   far-away  place  by  the  government,  for  con- 
finement as  notorious    disturbers    of  the    peace    on    our 
Western  frontier.     When  these  Indians  left  the  cars  at 
the  station,  I  observed  that  one  of  them  was  very  ill,  and 
that  another  was  nursing  the  sick  man.     I  was  greatly  im- 
pressed with  the  tenderness  of  the  rude  nurse,  and  with 
the  evident   love  which  underlay  his  ministrations.     The 
sick  Indian  was  sent  to  the  hospital,  and  his  friend,  who  I 
afterwards  learned  was  his  cousin,  was  allowed  to  go  with 
him  and  nurse  him.       On  the   next    night  the  sick  one 
grew  worse,  and   was    told    that  he    must    presently  die. 
Soon  afterward  he  called  to  his  cousin  to  hand  him  his 
bundle  from  under  his  cot ;  fumbling  in  it,  he  drew  out  a 
knife  which  he  had  secreted  there,  and,  while  h'is  cousin 
was  tenderly  leaning  over  him,  he  suddenly  plunged  the 


268     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

open  blade  into  his  cousin's  breast.  The  feebleness  of 
death  was  upon  him,  and  the  wound  was  slight;  and 
presently,  when  the  commotion  over  this  singular  act  had 
subsided,  the  hospital  people  asked  the  dying  Indian  what 
conceivable  reason  he  could  have  for  desiring  to  murder 
his  best  friend  in  such  a  manner.  He  replied  :  "  I  am  going 
to  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds;  I  wished  to  kill  him, 
that  he  might  go  with  me  :  I  love  him  so  that  I  cannot 
part  with  him." 

No  undiscovered  country  here  ;  and  this  rude  whole 
faith  is  a  good  foil  to  set  off  Hamlet's  cultivated  half-faith. 
In  short,  the  attitude  of  man  towards  the  supernatural  in 
Hamlet  is  that  of  practical  doubt  underlying  a  belief  that 
he  believes  :  the  most  wretched  and  perplexing  of  all  con- 
ditions. Even  when  the  Ghost  comes  from  the  undis- 
covered country  to  give  him  light,  he  never  quite  knows 
whether  to  doubt  the  Ghost  or  not,  in  the  midst  of  all  his 
plots  based  on  the  Ghost's  information. 

But  if  we  go  on  to  see  how  this  condition  of  mind  as 
to  the  supernatural  has  arranged  itself  by  1610,  we  are 
met  with  a  faith  as  fine  and  clear  as  the  Indian's,  and  as 
intelligent  as  the  Indian's  was  ignorant.  In  The  'Tempest 
there  is  a  Providence  indeed.  We  find  Him  shining,  here 
and  there,  all  through.  In  Act  I,  Scene  II,  when  Pros- 
pero  has  been  telling  Miranda  how  he,  and  she,  a  pitiful 
infant,  were  put  into  the  open  boat  and  turned  out  to  the 
wild  sea,  Miranda  says  : 

O  the  heavens  ! 
What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence  ? 
Or  blessed  was't  we  did  ? 

Prospero  replies: 

Both,  both,  my  girl : 
By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heav'd  thence ; 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 


MAN   AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL      269 

Acknowledging,  of  course,  that  there  is  One  who  blessedly 
helps. 

Again,  we  have  it  In  terms.  Presently,  after  hearing 
the  tremendous  story  of  their  voyage  in  the  open  boat, 
Miranda  cries  : 

How  came  we  ashore  ? 
and  Prospero  answers  : 

By  Providence  divine. 

More  than  that,  the  character  of  this  Providence  is  very 
different  from  any  that  has  before  appeared.  In  Hamlet 
Piovidence  is  sending  a  ghost  back  out  of  the  jaws  of 
darkness,  for  what  purpose?  To  organise  Revenge.  In 
The  'Tempest  Providence  sends  supernatural  powers  to 
Prospero  to  organise  Forgiveness.  Now^  cries  Hamlet, 
when  he  finds  the  King  in  his  power,  now  might  I  stab 
him  pat.  But  listen  to  Ariel  and  Prospero  talking  in  the 
first  scene  of  the  fifth  act  of  T'he  Tempest.  The  charms 
have  all  worked,  things  gather  to  a  head,  Prospero's  ene- 
mies are  all  in  his  power,  he  could  stab  them  all  at  one 
stroke  if  he  liked,  and  they  are  not  saying  their  prayers, 
either.  But  Ariel,  darting  up  and  reporting  these  matters, 
savs  : 

If  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Prospero.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  ? 

Ariel.      Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Prospero.  And  mine  shall.  .  .  . 

Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the  quick, 
Yet   .   .   . 

the  rarer  action  is 


270    SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

In  virtue  than  in  vengeance  :  they  being  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further. 

And  so,  when  the  wondering  wrecked  company  are  led  in 
by  Ariel,  after  a  while  Prospero  says  : 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault, —  all  of  them. 

And  it  is  a  most  heavenly  touch  of  the  fulness  of  this 
pardon  when  presently,  stricken  with  overwhelming  com- 
punction as  he  looks  into  the  cell  and  sees  Ferdinand  and 
Miranda  playing  chess,  the  brother  laments  : 

But,  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness  ! 

and  Prospero  quickly  interrupts  : 

There,  sir,  stop  : 
Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrance  with 
A  heaviness  that's  gone. 

Which  is  almost  like  a  paraphrase  of  St.  Paul's  Forgetting 
what  is  behind,  let  us  press  forward,  ^nd  so  forth.  And  so 
Prospero's  art  and  Prospero's  forgiveness  rise  above  the 
most  galling  oppositions  of  life,  and  we  see  that  Shakspere 
has  found  out  moral  exaltation  to  be  the  secret  of  manag- 
ing all  the  moral  antagonisms  of  existence.  How  changed 
is  the  attitude  of  man  towards  the  supernatural,  here,  from 
what  it  was  in  the  dream  play  of  the  Midsummer  Night, 
and  in  the  real  play  of  Hamlet!  In  the  first,  man  is  the 
sport  of  chance  ;  in  the  second,  man  knows  not  what  is 
above  ;  in  the  third,  repentance,  forgiveness,  and  Provi- 
dence rise  like  stars  out  of  the  dark  of  Hamlet. 


MAN   AND   THE   SUPERNATURAL     271 

In  the  next  two  lectures  we  will  trace  those  cunning 
and  often  amusing  revelations  of  the  attitude  of  man  to- 
wards his  fellow-man  and  towards  nature  proper  which  will 
complete  our  examination  of  these  plays.  Meantime  let 
me  close  this  lecture  with  remarking  that  it  is  instructive  to 
observe  from  a  different  point  of  view  the  three  phases  of 
the  supernatural  presented  by  these  plays.  The  supernat- 
ural, you  see,  is  in  all  these  plays.  In  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  it  is  a  flippant  Oberon  ;  in  Hamlet  it  is  a  ghost ;  - 
here  in  'Tempest  it  is  in  the  first  place  God,  and  in  the  sec- 
ond place  man  made  in  God's  image  controlling  the  pucks 
and  ghosts  who  formerly  controlled  him.  Puck,  the  bright 
trickster,  changes  to  Ariel,  the  bright  minister,  through  the 
intermediate  ghost,  the  dark  messenger.  Thus  the  Ideal 
Period  has  come  round  by  a  wonderful  cyclus  to  be  simply 
the  Dream  Period  reinformed  with  a  new  youth,  and 
Shakspere's  age,  with  its  fairy-tale,  The  Tempest^  is  but  a 
new  and  immortally  fine  reconstruction  of  his  youth,  with 
its  fairy-tale,  the  Dream.  I  cannot  think  of  the  manner 
in  which  this  glimmering  Puck  melts  into  this  sombre 
ghost,  and  this  ghost  into  the  radiant  Ariel,  without  re- 
calling a  series  of  ideas  which  I  found  some  years  ago 
in  a  long-forgotten  essay  of  Bulwer's.  He  was  draw- 
ing a  comparison  between  the  different  appearances  things 
would  present  to  us  if  slight  changes  were  made  in  the 
powers  of  our  sense  of  sight ;  and  these  changes  strikingly 
represent  the  actual  changes  in  views  of  things  which  we 
have  here  been  tracing  as  between  Shakspere's  youth  and  his 
ripeness.  Said  Bulwer,  in  substance  :  Our  present  eyesight 
takes  only  the  view  which  comes  from  the  surface  of  things, 
whence  the  ray  of  light  glances  and  strikes  our  retina. 
What  we  see,  therefore,  under  present  conditions,  is  a  sort 
of  film,  or  dreamy  covering  of  things.  That  is,  what  we 
call  a  beautiful  face  really  applies  only  to  the  colours  and 


272    SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

outlines  of  the  skin  which  covers  the  actual  framework  of 
the  face.  Now,  before  going  on,  let  us  analogise  this  to 
the  state  of  the  young  man's  eyes,  the  state  of  Shakspere's 
eyes  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream^  seeing  only  the  sur- 
face of  things,  seeing  things  as  in  a  dream,  not  seeing  the 
real  at  all,  not  realising  anything. 

But  suppose,  continued  Bulwer,  that  by  a  slight  change 
the  rays  of  light  did  not  bound  back  from  the  surface, — 
say  from  the  skin  of  the  face, —  but  penetrated  beneath 
that,  and  only  bounded  back  from  the  muscles,  nerves, 
veins,  and  bones.  What  an  inconceivably  repulsive  place 
would  the  world  become!  In  looking  then^ior  instance, 
at  our  beautiful  face,  we  would  see  only  that  reticulation  of 
nerves  and  veins  and  muscles  which  makes  a  medical  plate 
so  horrible ;  we  would  see  the  two  holes  of  the  skull  for 
nostrils  ;  we  would  see  a  ghastly  grin  instead  of  a  captivat- 
ing smile. 

And  here,  again,  before  going  further,  let  us  analo- 
gise this  to  the  young  man's  first  sight  of  the  real  in  life, 
that  is,  to  our  Shakspere's  Hamlet  period,  when  the  for- 
bidding network  of  death  and  murder  and  revenge  and  sin 
and  suffering  starts  out  from  underneath  the  smooth  ex- 
terior of  life,  as  the  network  of  veins  and  muscles  and  so 
on  starts  out  from  the  maiden's  cheek  to  the  more  power- 
ful vision.  This  Hamlet  period  is,  indeed,  just  that  in 
which  the  rays  of  light  begin  to  come  to  us,  not  from  the 
surface  of  things,  but  from  the  reality  of  things  ;  and  we 
see  how  our  Shakspere  is  paralysed  with  horror  at  the 
sight. 

But  Bulwer  does  not  leave  us  in  this  condition.  Sup- 
pose again,  he  says,  that  our  eyes  should  acquire  an  in- 
finitely greater  power,  so  that  they  should  see  not  only  the 
underlying  realities  of  things  but  should  actually  see  the 
purpose  and  reason  of  being  and  function  of  each  thing  along 


MAN   AND    THE   SUPERNATURAL     273 

with  the  thing  itself.  Suppose,  to  carry  on  the  example, 
that,  along  with  the  revolting  network  of  muscles  and  veins 
and  bones  in  the  human  face,  we  should  actually  see  the 
functions  of  each  one  —  how  each  part  was  beautifully  co- 
adapted  with  the  other,  how  the  muscle  played  and  swelled 
and  contracted,  how  the  generous  blood  ever  leaped  along 
the  artery  with  nutriment  and  built  up  the  exquisite  struc- 
ture of  the  face,  depositing  this  little  atom  here  and  this 
there,  and  keeping  up  the  form  and  contour  of  the  flesh, 
how  the  nerves  thrilled  with  a  sudden  impulse  that  ran 
into  the  sensorium  and  told  of  colour  and  of  music,  and  so 
on.  Then,  then,  if  we  saw  along  with  these  things  their 
working  and  their  final  end  and  purpose,  the  world  which 
a  moment  before  was  hideous  as  the  real  would  now  be- 
come infinitely  beautiful  as  the  ideal. 

And  so  it  became  to  Shakspere  :  bright  but  unreal  in 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  when  he  saw  only  the  external ; 
hideous  in  Hamlet,  when  he  saw  only  the  real ;  perfectly 
beautiful  in  T'empest,  when  he  saw  all  things  together,  all 
things  related  to  a  common  purpose,  nothing  common  or 
unclean,  because  everything  was  dignified  by  its  functional 
relation  to  that  purpose  —  in  short,  when  he  saw  the  world 
in  its  ideal.  And,  finally,  I  cannot  better  sum  up  the  re- 
lations of  these  three  plays  than  by  calling  your  attention 
to  their  epilogues  from  the  point  of  view  of  our  present 
status. 

At  the  end  of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  exeunt 
Oberon,  Titania,  and  their  train,  and  Puck  concludes  all 
with  this  epilogue  : 

If  we  shadows  have  offended, 
Think  but  this,  and  all  is  mended. 
That  you  have  but  slumber'd  here, 
While  these  visions  did  appear. 


274     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 
No  more  yielding  but  a  dream, 
Gentles,  do  not  reprehend  : 
If  you  pardon,  we  will  mend. 
And,  as  I'm  an  honest  Puck, 
If  we  have  unearned  luck. 
Now  to  scape  the  serpent's  tongue. 
We  will  make  amends  ere  long  ; 
Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call  : 
So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 
Give  me  your  hands, 

(that  is,  the  applause  of  your  hands) 

if  we  be  friends. 
And  Robin  shall  restore  amends. 

Here  we  have  —  nothing  :  fit  end  of  a  dream. 

When  we  come  to  Hamlet^  there  is  no  set  epilogue, 
but  they  are  to  bury  Hamlet,  and  to  shoot  over  his  grave 
as  a  tribute  to  his  soldierhood  ;  and  the  stage-direction  is, 
Exeunt,  bearing  ojfthe  bodies  :  after  which  a  peal  of  ordnance 
is  shot  off.  So  the  epilogue  is  really  a  peal  of  guns,  and 
truly  to  this  lamentable  play  there  could  be  no  fitter 
epilogue  than  these  sullen  shots  from  behind  the  curtain, 
like  inarticulate  cries  from  beyond  the  grave. 

But,  lastly,  to  T'he  Tempest  we  have  a  set  epilogue  ;  and 
such  a  farewell  as  it  is  ! 

Bearing  in  mind  the  flippant  departure  of  Puck  from 
the  stage,  and  remembering  how  likely  it  is  that  either 
'J'he  'Tempest  was  Shakspere's  last  play,  or  that  he  thought 
it  would  be,  we  cannot  listen  unmoved  to  the  passionate 
human  appeal  of  Shakspere  in  this  epilogue  as  a  personal 
supplication  from  the  master  to  his  fellow-men  whom  he 
had  so  long  entertained  with  his  art.  The  stage-direc- 
tion is  : 


MAN    AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL     275 

EPILOGUE 
Spoken  by  Prospero 

Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrown, 
And  what  strength  I  have's  mine  own, 
Which  is  most  faint : 

(Not  promising,  as  in  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  to  do 
better  next  time  if  you  will  but  pardon  the  faults  of  this.) 

now,  'tis  true, 
I  must  be  here  confin'd  by  you, 
Or  sent  to  Naples.      Let  me  not. 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got, 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands: 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails. 
Which  was  to  please.      Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 
And  my  ending  is  despair. 
Unless  I  be  reliev'd  by  prayer. 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 
As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon'd  be. 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO   MAN  AS  SHOWN    IN 

"MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM,"    -HAMLET," 

AND    "THE    TEMPEST" 


N  the  last  lecture  we  examined  these 
three  plays  with  reference  to  the  ideas 
of  man's  relations  to  the  supernatural 
which  appear  in  the  lines  and  between 
the  lines  of  them.  We  found  such  a 
clear  and  notable  advance  from  the 
conscienceless  Pucks  and  Oberons  and 
tricksy  chances  which  rule  the  world 
in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Drea?n,  through  the  weak  and 
ineffective  belief  of  belief  in  Hamlet,  to  the  large  and  clear- 
eyed  reliance  upon  the  goodness  and  the  ultimate  purpose 
of  things  in  T^he  'Tempest,  as  seems  to  argue  that  infinite 
widening  of  Shakspere's  spiritual  range  and  scope  which 
lands  him  here  fairly  in  that  wished-for  state  of  every  fer- 
vent artist  —  the  state  which  beholds  with  unfilmy  and 
unglozing  eye  all  the  contradictions  of  this  life,  but  which 
is  nevertheless  not  compelled  by  them  to  look  upon  life 
as  a  mere  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  of  grotesque  mis- 
haps and  crisscrosses  and  absurdities  ;  but  regards  it  more 
as  a  Tempest  raised  by  a  conscientious  power  for  a  gentle 

276 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN  277 

purpose,  and  guided  by  that  power  to  an  end  which  de- 
velopes  forgiveness,  large  behaviour,  love,  and  all  the 
better  qualities  of  the  Prosperos,  the  Alonsos,  the  An- 
tonios  and  the  Sebastians  of  this  world.  We  are  now  to 
study  these  same  plays  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  whether 
they  show  any  corresponding  enlargement  in  Shakspere's 
conceptions  of  man's  relations  to  his  fellow-men  and  of 
man's  relations  to  physical  nature. 

And  first,  of  man's  relations  to  his  fellow-men.  These 
plays  are  so  exuberantly  filled  with  indications  of  Shak- 
spere's greatly  widening  perceptions  upon  this  matter  as 
he  successively  emerged  from  the  Dream  Period  and  the 
Hamlet  Period  that  I  scarcely  know  when  I  have  ever 
been  more  perplexed  by  the  embarrassment  of  riches  than 
in  selecting  the  special  matters  to  which  I  might  most 
profitably  ask  your  notice.  The  immense  enlargement  of 
Shakspere's  horizon  as  to  the  right  behaviour  of  man 
towards  man  in  T^he  "Tem-pest  as  compared  with  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  might  be  developed  from  so  many 
texts  out  of  these  plays,  and  from  as  many  points  of  com- 
parative view,  as  to  fill  many  volumes.  But  only  men- 
tioning this  embarrassment  of  riches  as  explaining  the 
very  limited  presentation  which  can  be  made  in  any  one 
lecture  —  I  have  determined  to  confine  the  investigation 
here  to  the  three  very  interesting  plays-within-plays,  or 
anti-masques,  which  appear  in  these  three  works  of  Shak- 
spere's. You  all  remember,  of  course,  that,  framed  in  all 
the  gorgeous  and  grotesque  and  filmy  tracery  of  this 
dream,  we  have  the  play  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  within 
the  play  of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  Then  we  have 
the  terrible  play  of  the  murderer  pouring  poison  into 
the  King's  ear  and  getting  the  love  of  his  wife,  acted 
before  Hamlet's  uncle  and  mother — the  play  which, 
when  the  King  asks,  What  do  you  call  this  play  ?   Hamlet 


278     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

answers,  T^he  Mouse-trap.  And  finally  we  have  that  ex- 
quisite masque  of  the  gods — Juno  and  Ceres  and  their 
train  —  which  the  wise  and  potent  Prospero  arrays  before 
his  two  young  lovers,  Ferdinand  and  Miranda.  Now 
note  by  way  of  a  preliminary  outline  the  aim,  or  ground- 
motive,  of  each  of  these  anti-masques.  Here  we  have 
Bottom  and  Snug  the  joiner  and  Starveling  the  tailor 
and  the  other  clowns  performing  the  tedious-brief  tragical 
comedy  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  to  grace  the  wedding  of 
Theseus  and  Hippolyta,  and  the  manner  in  which  the 
poetic  speeches  of  the  actors  travesty  real  speeches  shows 
clearly  that  Shakspere  is  having  his  good-humoured  laugh 
at  somebody ;  so  that  we  may  say  the  ostensible  motive 
of  the  anti-masque  is  a  light  and  playful  amusement  for  a 
great  warrior  and  his  bride,  while  the  underlying  thought 
is  a  gentle  fun  over  somebody's  play-writing  ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  ground-motive  is  Ridicule. 

Here  in  Hamlet  the  motive  of  the  anti-masque  is 
quite  as  clear :  it  is  to  entrap  the  King's  conscience  into  a 
clear  betrayal  of  his  guilt  in  murdering  his  brother  and 
usurping  Denmark  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  ground-motive  of 
this  anti-masque  is  Revenge.  Here,  lastly,  in  l^he  'Tempesty 
Prospero,  a  student  of  nature,  a  physicist, —  who  is  never- 
theless also  a  man  with  man's  delights  and  passions,  and 
an  artist, —  brings  about  the  anti-masque  of  Juno  and 
Ceres  in  grateful  and  exuberant  delight  over  the  happy 
issues  of  his  own  working,  before  the  eyes  of  the  two 
whom  he  most  loves,  to  bless  their  marriage  ;  in  short,  the 
underlying  motive  here  is  Blessing.  We  may  then  write 
Ridicule,  Revenge,  Blessing  as  mnemonic  words  which 
embody  the  prominent  ideas  that  remain  when  we  strip 
away  the  unessential  accessories  of  these  three  anti- 
masques. 

But  now    let   us   look  a   little    more   closely    at   these 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN  279 

plays-within-plays,  and  put  some  flesh  upon  the  bones  of 
this  outline.  In  considering  the  anti-masque  o^  Py ramus 
and  Thisbej  here,  I  have  thought  that  perhaps  I  could 
make  this  necessarily  dry  analysis  somewhat  more  interest- 
ing to  you  by  hinging  it  upon  an  inquiry  as  to  who  was 
the  person  satirised  —  if  we  may  use  so  harsh  a  term  for 
such  hilarious  ridicule  as  this  —  in  the  figure  of  Bottom, 
the  Ass,  and  in  the  thunderous  lines  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe.  It  so  happens  that  since  the  last  lecture  in  which 
we  were  comparing  these  plays,  in  recalling  certain  pas- 
sages from  one  of  Gabriel  Harvey's  letters  written  in 
1592,  and  from  a  work  of  Robert  Greene's  a  little  earlier, 
I  was  struck  with  the  reemergence  in  my  mind  of  several 
hints  or  thoughts  from  those  passages  as  I  read  again  this 
mock-play  of  Pyramus  and  'Thisbe;  and  with  my  mind 
thus  directed  I  eagerly  took  up  a  search  which  has  quite 
satisfied  me  that  in  this  figure  of  Bottom,  the  Ass,  and  of 
Snug,  the  joiner,  and  in  these  absurd  speeches  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisbe,  Shakspere  is  laughing  at  the  one  man  whom 
history  has  ever  acquainted  us  with  as  his  enemy  —  I 
mean  at  Robert  Greene.  The  instant  I  started  in  this 
direction,  every  moment  yielded  a  fresh  evidence.  In 
arraying  some  of  these  evidences  before  you,  as  I  now 
proceed  to  do,  we  shall  find  at  every  step  glimpse  after 
glimpse  upon  Shakspere's  ideas  of  the  proper  behaviour  of 
man  to  his  fellow-man  —  which  is  the  final  aim  of  our 
research  to-day. 

Permit  me  to  recall  to  you  two  very  famous  liter- 
ary quarrels  of  Shakspere's  time,  which  will,  I  think,  put 
us  at  the  very  status  of  thought  and  frame  of  mind  in 
which  Shakspere  wrote  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
One  of  these  quarrels  shows  us  the  figures  of  Robert 
Greene,  Shakspere,  and  Henry  Chettle  in  certain  relations 
to  each  other ;  the  other  shows  us  Robert  Greene,  Shak- 


28o     SHAKSPERE  AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

spere,  and   Gabriel   Harvey    in   certain    relations    to   each 
other. 

Sometime  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  1592,  Henry 
Chettle,  acting  as  Hterary  executor  of  the  then  widely  cele- 
brated and  popular  dramatist  Robert  Greene,  who  was  just 
dead,  published  a  work  of  the  latter's  called  Greene  s  Groats- 
worth  of  Wit  Bought  with  a  Million  of  Repentance^  to  which 
I  have  already  called  your  attention.  It  is  in  this  work, 
you  remember,  that  the  sentence  occurs  in  which  Greene 
makes  his  famous  fling  at  Shakspere.  Let  me,  however, 
read  that  sentence  exactly  as  it  occurs,  and  with  it  a  word 
or  two  from  its  neighbouring  sentences,  which  I  think  we 
will  presently  find  quite  clearly  working  in  Shakspere's 
mind  as  he  wrote  the  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  of  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream.  Greene  is  going  on  to  abuse  several  con- 
temporary writers.  "  Yes,"  says  he,  "  trust  them  not ;  for 
there  is  an  upstart  Crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers,  that 
with  his  I'ygers  heart  wrapt  in  a  Players  hide^  supposes  he  is 
as  well  able  to  bumbast  out  a  blanke  verse  as  the  best  of 
you  ;  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  fac  totum^  is  in  his 
owne  conceit  the  onely  Shake-scene  in  a  countrie."  I  need 
not  recall  to  you,  I  am  sure,  the  well-known  circumstances 
which  point  to  Shakspere  as  the  person  Greene  is  here 
abusing :  the  word  Shake-scene,  the  evident  parody  in  the 
line  Tygers  heart  wrapt  in  a  Players  hide  of  a  line  in  the 
play  of  King  Henry  Vly  third  part,  and  so  on.  But  now, 
remembering  simply  as  catchwords  for  future  use  this 
line  which  I  have  here  written,  let  us  gather  one  or  two 
more  catchwords  —  whose  use  we  will  presently  see, 
from  the  context.  Greene  goes  on  to  say,  presently  :  "  In 
this  I  might  insert  two  more,  that  both  have  writ  against 
these  buckram  Gentlemen  :  but  let  their  owne  works  serve 
to  witnesse  against  their  owne  wickednesse,  if  they  persever 
to  maintaine  any  more  suche  peasants.     For   other   new 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN  281 

commers  I  leave  them  to  the  mercy  of  these  painted  mon- 
sters^ who  (I  doubt  not)  will  drive  the  best  minded  to 
despise  them  :  for  the  rest,  it  skils  not  though  they  make 
a  jeast  at  them."  From  this  keep  the  catchwords 
"peasants,"  "painted  monsters,"  and  "jeast."  Now, 
simply  noticing  on  the  way  that  we  never  hear  a  word 
from  Shakspere  in  reply  to  this  bitter  invective  of  Greene's, 
let  us  pass  on  to  the  letter  of  Gabriel  Harvey's  which  I 
just  now  mentioned.  Before  Greene  —  evidently  a  trucu- 
lent fellow  —  had  thus  attacked  Shakspere,  he  had  in- 
volved himself  in  a  fierce  quarrel  with  Gabriel  Harvey. 
(Harvey,  I  may  mention,  was  a  less-known  but  very 
learned  writer  of  this  time,  the  intimate  friend  of  Spenser 
and  Sir  Philip  Sidney.)  In  a  work  called  A  Snip  for  an 
Upstart  Courtier^  Greene  had  very  vulgarly  libelled  Har- 
vey's ancestry.  But  Harvey  was  not  so  controlled  as 
Shakspere  :  he  broke  forth  in  a  public  reply  to  Greene's 
insult.  Presently  Thomas  Nash  became  involved  in  the 
quarrel  on  Greene's  side,  and  the  result  was  a  considerable 
body  of  pamphlets  filled  with  the  most  wonderful  abuse,^ 
but,  also,  luckily  for  modern  scholars,  with  many  instruc- 
tive allusions  which  greatly  add  to  our  knowledge  of  con- 
temporary writers. 

It  was  in  the  course  of  this  quarrel  between  Greene, 
Nash,  and  Harvey,  which  lingered  on  even  after  Greene 
was  dead,  that  Harvey  published  a  series  of  four  pamphlets 
which  he  called  FOURE  LETTERS,  and  certaine  Sonnets  ; 
especially  touching  ROBERT  GREENE,  and  other  parties,  by 
him  abused. 

1  Harvey  declares  Greene  "  a  trivial  no  consideration  but  pure  Nashery." 

and  triobular  author  for  knaves  and  But  it  is  impossible  to  get  an  idea  of 

fools";  and  again  he  breaks  forth  :  the  extraordinary  personal  vilifica- 

*' No  honesty,  but  pure  Scogginism  ;  tion  without  reading  the  pamphlets 

no  religion,  but  precise  Marlowism  ;  themselves. 


282     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

It  is  not  necessary  to  do  more  than  remind  you  that 
these  four  letters,  touching,  as  they  say,  Robert  Greene  and 
certain  parties  by  him  abused,  would  surely  prove  interest- 
ing reading  to  Shakspere,  who  was  one  of  those  very 
parties,  who  was  a  rising  young  dramatist  now  beginning 
to  win  some  of  that  fame  which  the  popular  Robert 
Greene  had  just  yielded  up  with  his  breath,  and  who,  finally, 
was  too  dignified  to  engage  in  the  war  of  words,  how- 
ever keenly  he  might  feel  the  provocation.  The  letters, 
I  say,  must  have  been  interesting  matter  for  young  Shak- 
spere's  eyes  ;  and,  with  this  thought  in  your  minds,  I  now 
ask  your  attention  to  a  passage  or  two  in  a  couple  of 
Harvey's  letters  which  will  materially  increase  our  list  of 
catchwords  and  of  clue-ideas  to  be  presently  traced  through 
the  tangles  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe. 

For  example,  in  Harvey's  third  letter  he  calls  Greene 
"  that  terrible  Thundersmith  of  termes,"  which  please  add 
to  your  list.  Again,  in  another  letter  Harvey  quotes 
that  most  pathetic  note  of  Robert  Greene's  to  his  poor 
abandoned  wife : 

Doll,  I  charge  thee  by  the  love  of  our  youth  and  by  my  soul's 

rest,  that  thou  wilt  see  this  man  paid  :   for  if  he  and  his  wife  had 

not  succoured  me,  I  had  died  in  the  streets. 

Robert  Greene. 

Here  is  the  idea  of  Greene's  beggary,  and  presently  we  shall 
see  reason  for  putting  this  with  two  expressions  which  we 
find  in  Harvey's  third  letter,  where  in  one  place  we  find 
him  calling  Greene  a  "  Minion  of  the  Muses,"  and  in  an- 
other place  a  "  beggar." 

Again,  at  a  certain  point  of  one  of  Harvey's  letters  he 
runs  off  into  a  most  wonderful  learned  excursus  upon 
asses  :  Balaam's  ass,  the  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius,  and  an 
astonishing  number  of  other  famous  beasts  of  the  ass  tribe 


The  Only  Known  Portrait  of  Thomas  Nash 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN  283 

—  mentioning  almost  every  literary  ass  known  to  us  except 
"  bully  Bottom."  Again,  the  idea  of  satirising  living  persons 
in  comedy  occurs  in  that  one  of  Harvey's  pamphlets  in 
this  quarrel  called  Pierce's  Supererogation^  where  he  cries, 
"  Nay,  if  you  shake  the  painted  scabbard  at  me  "  (the 
painted  scabbard  being  here  a  symbol  of  the  satiric  lam- 
poon in  comedy)  "  I  have  done." 

Finally,  an  expression  in  Harvey's  third  letter  connects 
itself  with  a  positive  clue  which  lights  up  our  whole  path 
very  clearly.  He  is  describing  the  great  popularity  of 
Greene :  Greene,  he  says,  is  "  freshly  current  "  ;  and  he 
adds  very  prettily  :  "  Even  Guicciardini  s  silver  history,  and 
Arista's  golden  cantos,  grow  out  of  request :  and  the 
Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia  is  not  green  enough  .  .  . 
but  they  must  have  Greene's  Arcadia.  .  .  .  O  straunge 
fancies  !  O  monstrous  new-fanglednesse  I  " 

And  now  let  us  see  what  Greene's  Arcadia  will  yield 
us.  This  work  of  Greene's  —  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
that  series  of  pastorals  which  every  one  remembers  as  par- 
ticularly represented  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  youthful  pro- 
duction. The  Countess  of  Pembroke' s  Arcadia^  and  by  Spen- 
ser's eclogues  —  was  called  Menaphon  or  Arcadia.  It  has 
the  usual  rout  of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  and  green 
fields  and  love-talk,  together  with  more  than  the  usual 
complement  —  as  it  seemed  to  me  after  reading  it  some 
years  ago  —  of  the  most  absurd  and  silly  plots  and  situa- 
tions and  speeches  and  songs  that  ever  made  a  sensible  per- 
son laugh.  But  now,  with  this  general  idea  of  Greene's 
Arcadia^  let  me  call  attention  to  one  special  passage  of  it 
which  is  certainly  absurd  enough,  but  is  here  purposely 
absurd ;  at  least,  Greene  is  endeavouring  to  give  a  realistic 
picture  of  a  very  rude  shepherd  swain  singing  his  senti- 
ments to  a  very  rude  shepherdess.  This  is  called  the 
Eclogue  of  Carmela  and  Doron  :  and  we  shall  presently 


o84    SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

see  how  even  Shakspere's  clown's  travesty  of  it  contrasts  in 
delicacy  and  height  with  these  wretched  low-pitched,  pal- 
pable-gross ideas.     Doron  speaks,  in  Greene's  eclogue  : 

Carmela  dear,  even  as  the  golden  ball 
That  Venus  got,  such  are  thy  goodly  eyes, 
When  cherries'  juice  is  jumbled  therewithal ; 
Thy  breath  is  like  the  steam  of  Apple-pies. 

Thy  lips  resemble  two  cucumbers  fair ; 
Thy  teeth  like  to  the  tusks  of  fattest  swine; 
Thy  speech  is  like  the  thunder  in  the  air; 
Would  God  thy  toes,  thy  lips,  and  all  were  mine. 

Now   to  apply  this  series  of  clue-ideas  and  catchwords. 

Remembering  the  situation, —  Shakspere    abused    by 

Greene,  but  not  replying  ;   Harvey  abused  by  Greene,  and 

replying  in  pamphlets  which  Shakspere  must  have  read, 

and  one  of  which,  indeed,  probably  refers  to  Shakspere  in 

very  charming  terms, —  fancy  Shakspere,  in  this  status  of 

things,  setting  to  work  at  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Here,  in  the  first  place,  we  have  a  perfectly  solid  basis  to 

build  on  in  the  evidence  this  verse  affords  that  Shakspere 

had  Greene  in   his  mind,  in  some  connection,  as  he  was 

writing  Py  ramus  and  This  be.     For  compare  with  Doron  s 

Eclogue,  here,  Thisbe's   piteous   lament  over  Pyramus  as 

she   comes  and  finds   him  slain   by  the  lion.     Thus  she 

moans  : 

These  lily  lips, 

This  cherry  nose. 
These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 

Are  gone,  are  gone  : 

Lovers,  make  moan  : 
His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 

Here  we  have  (i)  not  only  the  general  similarity  of  ludi- 
crous comparisons  of  rude  lovers,  but  (2)  the  special  simi- 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN  285 

larlty  of  making  those  comparisons  take  the  particular 
direction  of  fruits  and  vegetables,  and  (3)  the  iden- 
tity of  terms  in  the  cherry  which  typifies  the  beautiful 
nose  of  Shakspere's  Pyramus  and  stains  the  lovely  eyes 
of  Greene's  Carmela.  I  think  no  reasonable  doubt 
remains  that  here  we  have  come  clearly  upon  the  idea 
of  Greene  in  Shakspere's  mind  as  he  is  writing  Pyramus 
and  Thisbe. 

And  now,  if  we  take  this  hint  and  hold  it  like  the 
point  of  a  magnet  among  all  these  iron-filings  of  hints 
which  I  have  scattered  here,  we  find  them  instantly  clus- 
tering about  it  into  a  very  palpable  lump  of  probabilities. 
For  example,  take  this  idea,  here,  of  the  Tygers  heart 
wrapt  in  a  Players  hide,  Greene's  own  contemptuous  allu- 
sion to  Shakspere  as  a  plagiarist,  and  see  how  exquisitely 
and  gaily  Shakspere  turns  the  idea  upside  down  —  as 
natural  for  a  dream  —  and  throws  back  this  hide  over 
Greene's  head.  For  listen  to  Bottom  and  his  captivating 
asses  discussing,  not  a  tiger's  heart  in  a  player's  hide,  but 
a  player's  heart  in  a  lion's  hide. 

Bottom.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  yourselves  :  to 
bring  in  —  God  shield  us!  —  a  lion  among  ladies  is  a  most  dread- 
ful thing;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild-fowl  than  your  lion 
living ;  and  we  ought  to  look  to  't. 

Snout.      Therefore  another  prologue  must  tell  he  is  not  a  lion. 

Bottom.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his  face  must 
be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck :  and  he  himself  must  speak 
through,  saying  thus,  or  to  the  same  defect, — '  Ladies,' —  or 
'Fair  ladies, —  I  would  wish  you,' — or  'I  would  request  you,' — 
or  'I  would  entreat  you, —  not  to  fear,  not  to  tremble:  my  life 
for  yours.  If  you  think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion,  it  were  pity  of 
my  life :  no,  I  am  no  such  thing ;  I  am  a  man  as  other  men  are '; 
and  there  indeed  let  him  name  his  name,  and  tell  them  plainly  he 
is  Snug  the  joiner. 


286     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

All  we  want,  of  course,  here  is  a  suggestion,  not  a  precise 
allegory.  Shakspere  never  makes  a  precise  allegory:  that 
is  for  the  more  creeping  wits  of  time ;  any  man  of  average 
cleverness  can  take  a  given  allegorical  scheme  or  modus, 
run  it  on  through  a  lot  of  details,  and  work  it  out  into 
stiff  and  wooden  figures  —  the  body,  for  instance,  as  a 
commonwealth  with  members,  etc.;  but  Shakspere,  while 
he  always  builds  upon  the  real,  while  he  always  takes  from 
this  and  that  actual  model,  while  he  always  keeps  one  foot 
on  the  earth,  so  that,  as  I  radically  believe,  there  is  not  a 
line  nor  a  feature  in  his  whole  works  for  which  he  could 
not  give  a  good  substantial  sanction  and  original  in  actual 
nature  as  hint  or  suggestion  —  while,  I  say,  he  always 
builds  so,  he  never  builds  woodenly  or  angularly,  he  never 
tries  to  make  a  simile  stand  on  four  legs,  he  never  carries 
out  a  suggestion  to  the  small  and  cloying  point  of  alle- 
gory or  of  exact  opposition.  Just  glancing,  here,  at  the 
exact  manner  in  which  this  shows  us  the  same  artistic 
management  with  that  of  the  oppositions  of  verse  which  I 
have  heretofore  presented  to  you,  let  us  now  return  to 
say  again  that  Shakspere's  figure,  here,  of  Snug,  a  player 
in  a  lion's  hide,  is  quite  as  near  to  Greene's  figure  of  a 
tiger's  heart  in  a  player's  hide  as  we  would  ever  expect 
Shakspere  to  come.  And  so  let  us  go  on  to  see  how  all 
these  items  begin  now  to  come  about  the  idea  that  Shak- 
spere is  gently  satirising  Greene.  Here  we  have  the  word 
"  peasants  ";  and  it  occurs  near  this  line  of  Greene's  in 
such  a  way  as  naturally  enough  to  make  it  possible  that  a 
mere  vague  untraced  association  has  made  Shakspere  — 
whom  Greene  here  calls  2.  peasant — take  the  group  of 
Athenian  peasants  and  make  them  players  and  put  one  of 
those  peasant  players  in  a  lion's  hide. 

Again,  here  is  Greene's  "painted  monster''  \  and  that 
is  not  only  what  Bottom  is,  but  we  find   Puck  using  the 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN  287 

word  where  he  tells  his  master  Oberon,  in  Act  III,  Scene 
II,  "  My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love." 

Again,  here  is  Greene's  idea  of  making  a  jest  at  them, 
and  Shakspere  is  taking  the  hint  and  making  the  jest  at 
them. 

Again, —  and  we  must  fancy  all  the  time,  here,  that 
Shakspere  has  been  reading  these  things  of  Greene's  and 
these  letters  of  Harvey's,  and  that  just  those  detached 
words  or  ideas  are  now  floating  up  to  him  out  of  them 
which  remain,  to  every  one,  after  the  main  connection  or 
matter  of  anything  read,  perhaps  carelessly  and  hastily, 
has  vanished  away, —  again,  here  is  Harvey  calling  Greene 
"  that  terrible  Thundersmith  of  termes " ;  and  surely 
Bottom  is  one  in  "  The  raging  rocks,"  etc.  {Midsummer 
Night's  Dream^  Act  I,  Scene  II),  or  in 

Approach,  ye  Furies  fell ! 

O  Fates,  come,  come, 

Cut  thread  and  thrum ; 
Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell !  1 

Again,  in  Act  V,  Scene  I,  where  Theseus  is  asking  what 
sports  are  toward  to  beguile  the  evening,  in  the  list  we 
find  a  tableau  or  spectacle  called 

The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  Learnings  late  deceased  in  beggary. 

And  here  we  have  Greene's  letter,  quoted  by  Harvey, 
alluding  to  his  own  beggary  ;  Harvey's  expression  in  his 
letter,  calling  Greene    "  the   Minion  of  the  Muses  "  ;  to 

1  Cf.    with   the   poetic  bombast  of  of  Harvey  and  Breton  (in  Brydges's 

Pyramus  and  This  be  the  prose  ro-  Ar  chaic  a)  a.nd.o^'Lznch.dim^  %  Letters 

domontade  of  Holofernes  and  Don  from    Kenilworth,    and    of    Master 

Adriano  de  Armado;  and  compare  Rhombus  in  Sidney's  masque.  The 

with  both  the  pedantic  affectations  Lady  of  the  May. 


28i,     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

which  we  may  add  Greene's  well-known  pride  in  his  own 
learning  —  he  was  fond  of  calling  himself  Doclor  Utriusque 
Academic<£^  etc. 

Again,  when,  in  Act  III,  Scene  I,  Puck  has  done  his 
wondrous  work  upon  Bottom  in  the  brake,  and  they  have 
all  run  away  at  the  apparition  of  Bottom  translated,  pres- 
ently reenters  Snout  and  cries, 

O  Bottom,  thou  art  changed  !   what  do  I  see  on  thee  ? 

and  Bottom  replies. 
What  do  you  see  ?   you  see  an  ass-head  of  your  own,  do  you  ? 

we  are  introduced  to  that  heartbreaking  and  immortal 
ass  whom  Titania  presently  coys,  and  whom  we  cannot 
help  associating  with  Greene  when,  in  the  light  of  all  these 
suggestions,  we  find  Harvey's  curious  suggestion  of  this, 
that,  and  the  other  ass,  particularly  of  Balaam's  Ass  re- 
buking his  master. 

Again,  we  have  the  suggestion,  in  Harvey's  letter,  of 
lampooning  a  rival  in  the  "  painted  scabbard  "  passage  I 
quoted.  And,  finally,  the  propriety  of  making  Greene 
an  ass  who  for  a  time  wins  the  doting  affection  of  the 
world,  as  the  ass  wins  Titania's,  and  then  suddenly  goes 
out  in  neglect  and  scorn,  as  Bottom  the  Ass  goes  out  of 
Titania's  favour  when  her  eyes  regain  their  normal  condi- 
tion :  the  propriety  of  this,  I  say,  grows  convincing  when 
we  find  here,  in  the  same  letter  of  Harvey's,  and  in  prox- 
imity to  all  these  other  hints  which  we  have  been  tracing, 
this  vivid  picture  of  Greene's  popularity  given  by  Harvey, 
showing  generally  how  everybody  was  reading  him,  and 
particularly  —  to  clinch  all  our  conclusions  together  — 
how  everybody  was  reading  that  very  Arcadia  in  which 
occurs  this  Doron  s  Eclogue  which  we  found  Shakspere  cer- 


/ 

/ 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN  -89 

tainly  had  in  his  mind,  probably  using  it  just  to  teach 
these  people  how  they  might  be  rude  and  grotesque,  and 
still  be  decent  and  ideal. 

I  might  multiply  these  hints  with  many  resemblances, 
if  there  were  time.  But  perhaps  I  have  given  quite 
enough  to  show  that,  in  all  probability,  Shakspere, 
throughout  his  anti-masque  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  as 
played  by  Bottom  and  Snout  and  Snug  and  the  other 
clowns,  was  having  his  little  retaliatory  laugh  at  his  rival 
Greene,  who  had  abused  him  in  the  Groatsworth  of  Wit. 

But  now  go  on  to  this  pitiful  Hamlet  Period  and  com- 
pare the  sportive  anti-masque  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe 
with  the  grim  Mouse-trap  anti-masque  of  Hamlet  to 
ensnare  the  King.  The  underlying  motive,  you  see,  of  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  anti-masque  is  revenge  in  its 
mildest  form  —  the  form  of  ridiculing  an  opponent.  And 
please  observe  that  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  this  com- 
parison which  I  am  now  making  to  accept  my  theory  just 
advanced,  that  Robert  Greene  is  the  particular  person  ridi- 
culed;  that  somebody  is  being  ridiculed  in  these  thunderous 
terms  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  and  these  ludicrous  realisms 
of  the  plastered  Wall  holding  up  his  fingers  for  a  chink, 
and  so  on, —  one  cannot  but  believe  that  Shakspere  would 
laugh  at  stage  properties  and  other  pitiful  realistic  devices, 
—  that  somebody  is  being  ridiculed,  I  say,  probably  no  one 
will  deny.  And  all  that  my  present  line  of  comparison 
requires  is  the  change  from  this  light,  sportive,  good- 
natured,  dreamy  revenge  —  this  ridicule  —  of  the  anti- 
masque  here  in  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  to  the 
desperate  horror  of  this  Hamlet  anti-masque. 

But,  not  dwelling  upon  that,  when  we  advance  from 
the  vengeful  anti-masque  of  Hamlet  to  the  anti-masque 
in  The  Tempest,  we  come  out  of  the  very  smoke  and  brim- 
stone of  the  pit  into  a  large  blue  heaven  of  moral  width 


290    SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

and  delight.  Frospero  has  raised  his  Tempest ;  he  and 
busy  Ariel  have  brought  this  and  that  scattered  strand  of 
circumstance  together ;  here  is  the  grave  and  beautiful 
Ferdinand  adoring  his  daughter  Miranda;  the  benefaction 
of  his  Tempest  is  about  to  appear  :  and  in  the  warm  glow 
and  exaltation  of  his  love  he  calls  down  the  gods  —  mark 
you,  this  is  the  man  Prospero  calling  down  Juno  and 
Ceres  and  Iris  at  his  bidding  to  show  their  beneficent 
glories  and  to  shower  their  benevolent  offerings  for  the 
pleasure  of  his  beloved.  This  anti-masque  gives  us  man 
in  the  culmination  of  his  glory  as  toward  his  fellow-man. 
He  who  calls  down  the  gods  to  minister  to  his  beloved, 
this  Prospero,  is  he  who,  having  his  enemies  in  his  power, — 
enemies  far  worse  than  the  wordy  Greene  of  this  Dream 
Period,  enemies  even  more  malignant  than  the  abominable 
King  and  Queen  of  the  Hamlet  Period, —  having  such 
enemies  in  his  power,  has  greatened  beyond  ridicule,  has 
enlarged  beyond  revenge,  has  learned  the  truth  of  true  love, 
the  dignity  of  man  toward  his  fellow,  the  wonder  and 
miracle  of  forgiveness  —  in  fine,  the  true  ideal  behaviour  and 
relation  of  man  to  his  fellow-man. 

In  the  next  lecture,  which  will  conclude  this  course,  the 
relations  of  man  to  nature  as  shown  in  these  plays  will  be 
traced,  and  a  summary  proof  offered  as  to  the  final  out- 
come of  all  this  demonstration  in  these  lectures,  that  the 
technical  and  moral  advance  of  Shakspere,  which  we  have 
followed  up  by  so  many  clues  from  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  to  The  Tempest^  is  simply  one  whole  ad- 
vance, and  that  a  less  moral  soul  than  Shakspere's  would 
have  been  equally  incapable  of  either  the  artistic  verse- 
craft,  the  artistic  drama-craft,  or  the  artistic  moral-craft 
which  we  find  in  these  late  plays. 

Meantime,  lest  you  should  fear  that  I  have  selected 
these  special  plays  because  others  would  serve  less  well, 
let  me  conclude  this  lecture  by  reading  you  a  scene  from 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    MAN  291 

a  less-known  play  of  Shakspere's,  in  which  an  ideal  of  man's 
relations  to  man,  of  man's  proper  behaviour  to  man,  is 
shown  upon  the  same  lofty  plane  as  the  Prospero  ideal. 
I  refer  to  Scene  II  in  Act  III  o{ Pericles.  It  is  just  at  this 
scene  that  the  hand  of  Shakspere  becomes  apparent  in  this 
play.  Here  in  the  noble  figure  of  Cerimon  he  shows  us 
the  man  of  science,  the  physician,  moving  about  his  home, 
attending  to  his  medical  practice,  reviving  the  weak, — 
charitable,  courteous,  grave,  energetic,  at  once  the  scien- 
tific physician  and  the  artistic  physician.  It  is  pleasant  to 
think  that  Shakspere  got  at  least  some  features  for  this 
picture  of  the  great  physician  I  am  about  to  read  from  an 
actual  model.  As  I  have  already  pointed  out,  in  the  year 
1607  Dr.  John  Hall,  who  was  a  physician  of  great  repute 
in  Stratford,  and  one  of  whose  books,  HalFs  Cures^  still 
remains  to  us,  married  Shakspere's  daughter  Susannah ; 
and  it  may  well  be  that  this  son-in-law  furnished  Shak- 
spere with  at  least  as  much  of  a  model  as  Shakspere  ever 
wanted  for  the  basis  of  any  conception. 

To  my  judgment,  there  is  nothing  lovelier  than  this 
scene  in  all  Shakspere.  The  situation  is  this  :  Pericles, 
Prince  of  Tyre,  being  in  a  foreign  land  in  disguise  on 
account  of  circumstances  which  I  need  not  take  time  to 
relate,  loves  and  marries  the  beautiful  Thaisa,  and  they  live 
happily  for  a  time.  Presently  Pericles  has  news  that  his 
people  call  him  home  to  be  their  governor,  and  sets  sail 
with  Thaisa  for  his  own  Tyre.  On  the  way,  a  great  storm 
arises  off  Ephesus,  and,  physically  overcome  with  the  ter- 
rors of  the  tempest,  Thaisa  seems  to  die.  The  sailors  de- 
mand that  she  shall  be  thrown  overboard  immediately, 
their  superstition  being  that  a  dead  body  on  board  ship 
provokes  the  storm  to  greater  fury.  So  the  sorrowing 
Pericles  has  up  a  coffer,  calked  and  bitumened,  wraps  the 
seeming  corpse  tenderly  in  spices  and  rich  robes,  lays  along- 
side it  a  casket  of  jewels,  and  places  upon  all  a  paper  stat- 


292     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

ing  that  this  is  the  wife  of  Pericles,  and  that  if  the  coffer 
should  be  washed  ashore,  he  who  finds  it  shall  give  fair 
burial  to  it  and  take  the  casket  of  jewels  for  his  fee. 

The  coffer  with  this  rich  freight  is  cast  into  the  sea,  and 
the  ship  sails  on. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  Ephesus,  and  shows  us  a 
room  in  the  house  of  Cerimon,  our  doctor.  And  the  rest 
let  these  wonderful  words  of  Shakspere  tell.  I  will  only 
ask  you  to  observe  the  grave  and  noble  dignity  of  the  phy- 
sician Cerimon,  his  devotion  to  his  science,  and  the  side- 
lights we  get  upon  his  grand  charity  and  service  to  his  fel- 
low-men through  the  praises  of  the  two  gentlemen  who 
presently  appear.     Into  the  room 

Enter  Cerimon,  a  Servant^  and  some  Persons  who  have  been 

shipwrecked. 

Cer.      Philemon,  ho  ! 

Enter  Philemon. 

Phi/.      Does  my  lord  call  ? 

Cer.      Get  fire  and  meat  for  these  poor  men  : 
It  has  been  a  turbulent  and  stormy  night. 

Serv.      I  have  been  in  many ;  but  such  a  night  as  this, 
Till  now,  I  ne'er  endured. 

Cer.     Your  master  will  be  dead  ere  you  return  ; 

There's  nothing  can  be  minister'd  to  nature 

That  can  recover  him.      (To  Philemon)  Give  this  to  the  'pothe- 
cary. 

And  tell  me  how  it  works.  (^Exeunt  all  but  Cerimon.) 

Enter  two  Gentlemen. 

First  Gent.  Good  morrow. 

Sec.  Gent.      Good  morrow  to  your  lordship. 

Cer.  Gentlemen, 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    MAN  293 

Why  do  you  stir  so  early  ? 

First  Gent.      Sir, 
Our  lodgings,  standing  bleak  upon  the  sea 
Shook  as  the  earth  did  quake  ; 
The  very  principals  did  seem  to  rend 
And  all  to  topple  :   pure  surprise  and  fear 
Made  me  to  quit  the  house.   .   .   . 
But  I  much  marvel  that  your  lordship,  having 
Rich  tire  about  you,  should  at  these  early  hours 
Shake  off  the  golden  slumber  of  repose. 
'Tis  most  strange. 

Nature  should  be  so  conversant  with  pain, 
Being  thereto  not  compell'd. 

Cer.  I  hold  it  ever. 

Virtue  and  cunning  were  endowments  greater 
Than  nobleness  and  riches :   careless  heirs 
May  the  two  latter  darken  and  expend, 
But  immortality  attends  the  former.. 
Making  a  man  a  god.      'Tis  known,  I  ever 
Have  studied  physic,  through  which  secret  art. 
By  turning  o'er  authorities,  I  have, 
Together  with  my  practice,  made  familiar 
To  me  and  to  my  aid  the  blest  infusions 
That  dwell  in  vegetives,  in  metals,  stones  ; 
And  I  can  speak  of  the  disturbances 

That  nature  works,  and  of  her  cures  \  which  doth  give  me 
A  more  content  in  course  of  true  delight 
Than  to  be  thirsty  after  tottering  honour. 
Or  tie  my  treasure  up  in  silken  bags, 
To  please  the  fool  and  death. 

Sec.  Gent.     Your  honour  has  through  Ephesus  pour'd  forth 
Your  charity,  and  hundreds  call  themselves 
Your  creatures,  who  by  you  have  been  restor'd  : 
And  not  your  knowledge,  your  personal  pain,  but  even 
Your  purse,  still  open,  hath  built  Lord  Cerimon 
Such  strong  renown  as  never  shall  decay. 


294     SHAKSPERE  AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Enter  two  or  three  Servants^  with  a  Chest. 

(Which  is  the  coffer  Pericles  cast  into  the  sea  a  few  hours 
before.) 

Serv.      So  ;   lift  there. 

Cer.      What  is  that  ? 

Serv.     Sir,  even  now 
Did  the  sea  toss  upon  our  shore  this  chest : 
'Tis  of  some  wrack. 

Cer.      Set  it  down,  let's  look  upon  't. 

Sec.  Gent.      'Tis  like  a  coffin,  sir. 

Cer.  Whate'er  it  be, 

'Tis  wondrous  heavy.      Wrench  it  open  straight :   .   .  o 
How  close  'tis  caulk'd  and  bitumed  ! 
Did  the  sea  cast  it  up  ? 

Serv.     I  never  saw  so  huge  a  billow,  sir. 
As  tossed  it  upon  shore. 

Cer.      Come,  wrench  it  open  : 
Soft !   it  smells  most  sweetly  in  my  sense. 

Sec.  Gent.      A  delicate  odour. 

Cer.     As  ever  hit  my  nostril.      So,  up  with  it. 
O  you  most  potent  gods  !   what's  here  ?  a  corse  ! 

First  Gent.      Most  strange  ! 

Cer.     Shrouded  in  cloth  of  state  ;  balm'd  and  entreasur'd 
With  full  bags  of  spices  !      A  passport  too  ! 
Apollo,  perfect  me  i'  the  characters  !  {Reads  from  a  scroll.) 

Here  I  give  to  understand., 

If  e'er  this  coffin  drive  a-land^ 

/,  King  Pericles.,  have  lost 

This  queen.,  worth  all  our  mundane  cost. 

Who  finds  her.,  give  her  burying  ; 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  king : 

Besides  this  treasure  for  a  fee., 

The  gods  requite  his  charity  ! 

If  thou  liv'st,  Pericles,  thou  hast  a  heart 
That  even  cracks  for  woe  !      This  chanc'd  to-night. 
Sec.  Gent.      Most  likely,  sir. 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    MAN 


295 


Cer.  Nay,  certainly  to-night; 

For  look  how  fresh  she  looks  !    They  were  too  rough 
That  threw  her  in  the  sea. 

And  here  all  the  man  and  all  the  physician  rises  in  him  : 
he  is  now  the  artist,  alive  with  energy  and  intelligence. 

Make  fire  within  : 
Fetch  hither  all  the  boxes  in  my  closet.  (^Exit  a  servant.) 

Death  may  usurp  on  nature  many  hours, 
And  yet  the  fire  of  life  kindle  again 
The  o'erpressed  spirits.      I  heard  of  an  Egyptian 
That  had  nine  hours  lien  dead. 
Who  was  by  good  appliances  recovered. 

Reenter  Servant^  with  boxes^  napkins^  and  fire. 

Well  said,  well  said ;  the  fire  and  the  cloths. 
The  rough  and  woful  music  ^  that  we  have. 
Cause  it  to  sound,  beseech  you. 
The  vial  once  more  :   how  thou  stirr'st,  thou  block  ! 

1  As  to  using  music  medicinally,   cf.  Hamlet  III,  II,    293;    also    Robert 
Herrick's  poem  To    Music,   to    Becalm   his    Fever: 


Charm  me  asleep  and  melt  me  so 

With  thy  delicious  numbers, 
That,  being  ravish'd,  hence  I  go 
Away  in  easy  slumbers. 
Ease  my  sick  head 
And  make  my  bed. 
Thou  power  that  canst  sever 
From  me  this  ill ; 
And  quickly  still, 
Though  thou  not  kill, 
My  fever. 

Thou  sweetly  canst  convert  the  same 

From  a  consuming  fire 
Into  a  gentle-licking  flame, 
And  make  it  thus  expire. 
Then  make  me  weep 
My  pains  asleep^ 


And  give  me  such  reposes 
That  I,  poor  I, 
May  think  thereby 
I  live  and  die 

'Mongst  roses. 


Fall  on  me  like  a  silent  dew, 

Or  like  those  maiden  showers 
Which,  by  the  peep  of  day,  do  strew 
A  baptism  o'er  the  flowers. 
Melt,  melt  my  pains 
With  thy  soft  strains  ; 
That,  having  ease  me  given, 
With  full  delight 
I  leave  this  light, 
And  take  my  flight 
For  heaven. 


296     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

The  music  there  !     I  pray  you,  give  her  air. 

Gentlemen, 

This  queen  will  live  :   nature  awakes  ;  a  warmth 

Breathes  out  of  her:   she  hath  not  been  entranc'd 

Above  five  hours :   see  how  she  'gins  to  blow 

Into  life's  flower  again  ! 

First  Gent.  The  heavens, 

Through  you,  increase  our  wonder,  and  set  up 
Your  fame  for  ever. 

Ce7-.  She  is  alive  ;  behold. 

Her  eyelids,  cases  to  those  heavenly  jewels 
Which  Pericles  hath  lost. 
Begin  to  part  their  fringes  of  bright  gold  : 
The  diamonds  of  a  most  praised  water 
Do  appear  to  make  the  world  twice  rich.      Live, 
And  make  us  weep  to  hear  your  fate,  fair  creature, 
Rare  as  you  seem  to  be. 

Tbaisa.  O  dear  Diana, 

Where  am  I  ?      Where's  my  lord  ?     What  world  is  this .?  ^ 

Sec.  Gent.      Is  not  this  strange  .? 

First  Gent.      Most  rare  ! 

Cer.      Hush,  gentle  neighbours  ! 
Lend  me  your  hands ;  to  the  next  chamber  bear  her. 
Get  linen  :   now  this  matter  must  be  look'd  to. 
For  her  relapse  is  mortal.      Come,  come ; 
And  ^sculapius  guide  us  ! 

{Exeunt.,  carrying  Thaisa  away.^ 

^Observe  the  order  of  these  ques-  "Where's  my  lord?"  as  the  next 
tions,  revealing,  first,  the  return  of  thought  always  present ;  fourth, 
identity,  "I " ;  second,  space  ;  third,      '  *  What  world  is  this  .? ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MAN'S    RELATIONS  TO  NATURE  AS  SHOWN  IN 

"MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM,"   *' HAMLET,"  AND 

"THE  TEMPEST,"  AND  CONCLUSION 


N  the  last  two  lectures  we  have  found 
a  great  enlargement  in  the  faculty  of 
balancing  and  adjusting  those  opposi- 
tions which  arise  (i)  out  of  man's  re- 
lations to  the  supernatural,  and  (2) 
out  of  man's  relations  to  his  fellow- 
man. 

We  are  now  to  complete  this  por- 
tion of  our  programme  by  inquiring  if  any  correlative 
widening  of  Shakspere's  horizon  as  to  the  relations  of  man 
to  Nature  displays  itself  as  we  examine  this  representative 
play  of  Shakspere's  youth,  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream^ 
in  contrast  with  this  representative  play  of  his  maturity. 
The  Tempest,  through  the  transition  period  represented  by 
Hamlet. 

Let  me  remark  in  the  outset  of  this  inquiry,  as  I  was 
obliged  to  in  the  last  lecture,  that  here  the  embarrassment 
of  riches  is  quite  as  great  as  there,  and  that  —  confined  as 
it  must  be  to  one  lecture  —  I  must  beg  you  to  accept  a 
single  phase  of  a  matter  which  can  be  looked  on  from  many 

297 


298     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

points    of  view   and  which  might  be  exhaustively  treated 
only  in  many  lectures  or  volumes. 

Without  more  ado  —  come,  then,  let  us  take  a  walk  into 
Nature  with  our  young  Master  Shakspere  in  this  dream- 
time  of  his,  and  see  what  he  could  see  at  that  stage  of  him 
in  flowers  and  grasses  and  trees.  And  for  the  most  fresh 
and  brilliant  excursion  in  the  world  let  us  fare  forth  a-hunt- 
ing  here  with  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  into  the  woods, 
hounds  capering  and  horns  all  busy,  and  then  let  us  com- 
pare this  hunt  with  a  certain  wild  hunt  in  'The  Tempest.  It 
will  help  my  present  purpose  if  we  take  with  us  the  next 
finest  open-air  poet  after  Shakspere  in  the  world,  Dan 
Chaucer.  And  luckily  nothing  is  easier  than  to  bring 
these  together  on  this  particular  hunt.  The  whole  frame- 
work and  atmosphere  of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
is  drawn  by  Shakspere,  as  you  remember,  from  that 
most  symmetrically  delightful  of  all  Chaucer's  poems.  The 
Knight's  Tale  —  the  first  of  the  Canterbury  Tales  as  ordi- 
narily printed.  We  might  very  fairly  call  The  Knight's  Tale 
Chaucer's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  It  is  a  temptation 
I  can  scarcely  resist  to  go  through  The  Knight's  Tale  and 
show  from  point  to  point  the  cunning  transformations  and 
enlargements  which  Shakspere  made  out  of  it  in  weaving 
his  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  But  this  must  be  passed 
by ;  and  now,  concentrating  our  attention  on  Theseus  and 
Hippolyta,  let  us  see  for  a  moment  how  Chaucer  carries 
them  into  the  midst  of  Nature  a-hunting  in  the  greenwood, 
as  bringing  us  nearer  to  the  ideal  Shakspere  has  in  his 
mind.  At  the  time  of  the  hunt  in  Chaucer's  story  the 
situation  is  this:  Theseus  has  just  wedded  Hippolyta,  has 
just  returned  from  the  Theban  wars  with  the  two  young 
captive  knights  Palamon  and  Arcite,  and  now,  having 
served  Mars,  as  Chaucer  says,  he  eagerly  turns  to  Diana 
—  that  is,  he  turns  from  war  to  hunting.  It  is  early  of  a 
May  morning,  when  lovers  cannot  sleep  till  sunrise,  but 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    NATURE     299 

must  up  and  forth  to  the  woods  and  gather  odorous  chap- 
lets  and  do  their  observance  to  the  season  of  love.  Says 
Chaucer  :  ^ 

The  busy  larke  messager  of  day, 
Salueth  in  hire  song  the  morwe  gray  ; 
And  fyry  Phebus  ryseth  up  so  bright 
That  al  the  orient  laugheth  of  the  light, 
And  with  his  stremes  dryeth  in  the  greves 
The  silver  dropes,  hongyng  on  the  leves. 

And  in  such  a  season  we  are  now  led  to 

mighty  Theseus, 
That  for  to  honte  is  so  desirous 
And  namely  the  grete  hert  in  May, 
That  in  his  bed  ther  daweth  him  no  day, 
That  he  nys  clad,  and  redy  for  to  ryde 
With  hont  and  horn,  and  houndes  hym  byside. 
For  in  his  hontyng  hath  he  such  delyt 
That  it  is  al  his  joye  and  appetyt 
To  been  himself  the  grete  hertes  bane. 
For  after  Mars  he  serveth  now  Dyane. 

Cleer  was  the  day,  as  I  have  told  or  this, 
And  Theseus,  with  alle  joye  and  blys, 
With  his  Ypolita,  the  fayre  queene. 
And  Emelye,  clothed  al  in  greene. 
On  hontyng  be  thay  riden  ryally. 
And  to  the  grove  that  stood  ther  faste  by. 
In  which  ther  was  an  hert  as  men  him  tolde, 
Duk  Theseus  the  streyte  wey  hath  holde. 
And  to  the  launde  he  rydeth  him  ful  right, 
Ther  was  the  hert  y-wont  to  have  his  flight. 
And  over  a  brook,  and  so  forth  in  his  weye. 
This  duk  wol  have  of  him  a  cours  or  tweye 
With  houndes,  which  as  him  luste  to  commande.  2 

1  Morris,  Aldine  Chaucer,  vol.  ii,  page  46,  line  633. 
2  Ibid,  page  52,  lines  815-837. 


300     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Here,  then,  is  Chaucer's  hunting-party,  Chaucer's 
Theseus  and  Hippolyta,  Chaucer's  horn  and  hounds. 
FHtting  now  along  two  hundred  years,  here  is  the  same 
wood  near  Athens,  the  same  fresh  EngHsh  air,  the  early 
morning,  the  dew,  the  glistening  leaf,  the  mighty  Theseus, 
the  radiant  Hippolyta,  the  hunting-train,  and  all,  in 
Shakspere's  version.  But  this  wood  into  which  Shak- 
spere's  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  are  now  pacing  is  more 
alive  than  Chaucer's.  Chaucer's,  it  is  true,  has  the  two 
young  lovers  Palamon  and  Arcite,  who  are  met  in  the 
wood  alone  to  fight  until  one  shall  kill  the  other  and  thus 
determine  who  shall  have  Emily ;  and  above  the  two 
lovers  Chaucer  allows  us  to  see  the  dim  forms  of  their 
patron  gods,  Mars  and  Venus.  But  Shakspere,  closely 
following  Chaucer  in  bringing  his  Theseus  and  Hippolyta, 
on  a  hunt,  into  a  wood  full  of  lovers,  instead  of  the  classic 
figures  of  Mars  and  Venus  has  put  a  Teutonic  fairy  in 
every  flower-bell,  and  the  whole  forest  has  started  into  life 
in  the  dainty  forms  of  Oberon  and  Titania  and  Puck  and 
Peaseblossom  and  Cobweb  and  Mustardseed.  The  two 
scenes  of  Act  I  are  indoors  :  Scene  I  in  Theseus's  palace, 
Scene  II  in  Peter  Quince's  house.  But  in  Act  II,  Scene 
I  we  are  carried  into  the  wood,  and  here  straightway  come 
sailing  in  Puck  on  one  side  and  a  Fairy  on  the  other. 
Let  me  rapidly  recall  the  Nature-pictures  and  Nature- 
personations  up  to  the  hunt  of  Theseus.  The  Fairy 
explains  : 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  everywhere.   .   .   . 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE     301 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be  : 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savours  : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here. 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

And  then  Puck  prepares  us  for  the  quarrel  of  the  fairy 
King  and  Queen  ;  it  is  about  the  Indian  boy,  and  so  on ; 
Oberon  will  have  him,Titania  will  have  him. 

And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove  or  green, 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  starlight  sheen, 
But  they  do  square,  that  all  their  elves  for  fear 
Creep  into  acorn  cups  and  hide  them  there. 

Then  Puck  explains  his  own  reason  of  being,  which  is 
mischief  pure  and  simple  :  to  skim  milk,  to  make  the 
churnings  bootless,  to  mislead  night  wanderers,  to  beguile 
bean-fed  horses  and  ancient  gossips  and  amuse  Oberon. 
And  hereupon  the  whole  company  of  Nature-figures  float 
into  the  scene  :  enter  from  one  side  Oberon  and  train ; 
from  the  other  side  Titania  and  train  ;  they  quarrel : 

111  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 
What, jealous  Oberon!      Fairies, skip  hence. 

And    presently   we   have    this   wondrous   Nature-picture, 
in  which  please  note  the  storm  —  far  unlike  the  Tempest 
—  is  merely  a  peevish  result  of  a  silly  elfin  quarrel. 
Titania  is  reproaching  the  jealous  Oberon: 

Never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring, 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain  or  by  rushy  brook. 
Or  in  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea. 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind. 


302     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturb'd  our  sport. 

Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 

As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 

Contagious  fogs  ;   which,  falling  in  the  land. 

Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud, 

That  they  have  overborne  their  continents  : 

The  ox  hath  therefore  stretched  his  yoke  in  vain, 

The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 

Hath  rotted  ere  his  youth  attained  a  beard : 

The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 

And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock  ; 

The  nine  men's  morris  is  filled  up  with  mud  ; 

And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 

For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable  : 

The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here ; 

No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest : 

Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 

Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air. 

That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound  : 

And  through  this  distemperature  we  see 

The  seasons  alter  :   hoary-headed  frosts 

Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 

And  on  old  Hiems'  thin  and  icy  crown 

An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 

Is,  as  in  mockery,  set :  the  spring,  the  summer. 

The  childing  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 

Their  wonted  liveries  ;   and  the  mazed  world. 

By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which : 

And  this  sa?ne  progeny  of  evils  comes 

From  our  debate^  from  our  dissension ; 

We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

And  then  Puck  brings  the  juice  of  the  flower  love-lies- 
bleeding,  and  works  with  it  about  the  wood,  here  and 
there: 

Lord  [he  says] ,  what  fools  these  mortals  be  !   .   .   . 

[And  whcnl  two  at  once  woo  one ; 


Puck 

!n  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream" 
From  an  engraving  by  Charles  Marr  of  the  picture  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE      303 

That  must  needs  be  sport  alone ; 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me 
That  befall  preposterously. 

And  so,  into  this  wood,  alive  with  Puck  and  Oberon, 
alive  with  small  soldiers  warring  with  rere-mice  for  their 
wings,  alive  with  spotted  snakes  of  double  tongue,  with 
thorny  hedgehogs,  newts,  and  blindworms,  with  nightin- 
gales and  clamorous  owls,  weaving  spiders,  beetles,  worms 
and  snails,  ounces,  cats,  bears,  pards,  and  boars,  ousel- 
cocks,  so  black  of  hue,  with  orange-tawny  bill,  throstles 
with  notes  so  true,  wrens  with  little  quill,  the  finch,  the 
sparrow,  and  the  lark,  the  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, —  into 
this  wood,  alive  with  Lysander  loving  Helena,  Helena 
loving  Demetrius,  Demetrius  Hermia,  and  Hermia  Ly- 
sander, where  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  and  Quince  and 
Snug  and  Bottom  translated  to  an  ass  are  pranking  to 
make  the  very  trees  split  their  sides  —  here,  in  Act  IV, 
Scene  I,  while  horns  are  being  winded  within,  come  pacing 
Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Egeus,  and  the  hunting-train,  and 
the  talk  is  of  hounds  and  their  music. 

Theseus.      Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester  ; 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd ; 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day. 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley  ;  let  them  go  : 
Despatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester. 

{^Exit  an  attendant.'^ 
We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hippolyta.      I  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once. 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bayed  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta  :   never  did  I  hear 


304    SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Such  gallant  chiding ;   for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seem'd  all  one  mutual  cry :   I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

Theseus.      My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind. 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew ; 
Crook-knee'd,  and  dew-lapp'd  like  Thessalian  bulls  ; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells. 
Each  under  each.      A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  hoUa'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly  : 
Judge  when  you  hear. 

So  !  What  a  brave  world  it  is,  of  cowslips  and  dew  and 
frolic  and  love  and  the  King  and  Queen  a-hunting  !  Life, 
busy  life,  everywhere  in  Nature  :  little  elves  of  life  a-work 
down  in  the  kingcups  and  clover,  killing  cankers  in  the 
musk-rose  buds,  foraging  for  Bottom's  honey-bags,  dis- 
tressing or  blessing  lovers  —  everywhere  this  Nature  of 
Shakspere's  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dremn  is  all  riant 
and  rich  with  multiform  life  ;  we  may  sum  up  the  whole 
view  of  it  in  saying  that  here  Nature  is  given  to  us  as  a 
debonair  type  of  physical  life. 

But  with  this  figure  —  Life  —  before  our  eyes,  look 
what  a  grim  opposite  of  it  rises  up  and  stares  it  in  the 
face  out  of  this  Hamlet  Period.  Bring  your  pretty  painted 
unreal  figure  of  Life  in  Nature  up  here  upon  the  cold 
platform  of  this  castle  of  Elsinore,  and  hold  it  a  moment ; 
here,  under  the  sarcastic  stars,  in  the  mortal  midnight, 
stalks  forth  out  of  the  darkness  another  form  which 
Physical  Nature  wears  —  the  form  of  Death.  The  Ghost  of 
Hamlet's  father,  the  murdered  King  in  the  Mouse-trap 
masque,  the  stabbed  body  of  Polonius,  the  skull  of  Yorick, 
the  grave  of  Ophelia,  the  bare  bodkin,  the  poisonous  herb 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    NATURE     305 

of  Laertes  —  this  also  is  Nature.  Was  Nature  all  riotous 
with  life  in  the  dream  ?  Behold,  she  is  quite  as  riotous 
with  death  in  the  reality  :  for,  indeed,  an  you  come  to  it, 
all  life  must  turn  into  death. 

This  seems  to  be  the  essential  Nature-utterance  of  the 
Hamlet  epoch  in  Shakspere. 

Let  us  pause  upon  it  a  moment. 

I  cannot  think  of  the  uprising  of  this  sad  face  of  death 
before  our  dear  Master  Shakspere  in  Hamlet  from  beneath 
the  kingcups  and  clover  and  cowslips  of  the  dream,  as 
being  the  inevitable  opposition  into  which  Physical  Nature 
resolves  itself,  and  which  every  man  must  grapple  with 
and  manage  at  some  time  or  other  of  his  spiritual  career, 
here  —  I  cannot  think  of  this  dual  form  of  Nature  without 
recalling  some  memorable  words  in  Mr.  Darwin's  Origin 
of  Species.  I  am  fond  of  bringing  together  people  and 
books  that  never  dreamed  of  being  side  by  side  :  often  I 
find  nothing  more  instructive  ;  and  so  permit  me  to  quote 
some  words  here  and  there  in  Mr.  Darwin's  book  which 
seem  to  me  to  give  a  very  precise  and  scientific  account  of 
the  very  opposition  which  I  have  here  been  trying  to 
bring  out  as  between  Nature,  the  mother  of  life,  in  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  and  Nature,  the  mother  of  death, 
in  Hamlet. 

I  read  here  and  there  from  T'he  Origin  of  Species.^ 

Mr.  Darwin  is  discussing  the  struggle  for  existence. 
"  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  admit  in  words  the  truth  of  the 
universal  struggle  for  life,  or  more  difficult  .  .  .  than  con- 
stantly to  bear  this  conclusion  in  mind.  Yet  unless  it  be 
thoroughly  engrained  in  the  mind,  the  whole  economy  of 
nature  .  .  .  will  be  dimly  seen  or  quite  misunderstood. 
We  behold  the  face  of  nature  bright  with  gladness";  as 
Shakspere  in   this   dream-time  ;    "  we  do  not  see,  or  we 

1  Edition  of  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  1 877. 


3o6     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

forget,  that  the  birds  which  are  idly  singing  round  us 
mostly  live  on  insects  or  seeds,  and  are  thus  constantly 
destroying  life  ;  or  we  forget  how  largely  these  songsters, 
or  their  eggs,  or  their  nestlings,  are  destroyed  by  birds 
and  beasts  of  prey."  Again  :  "In  looking  at  nature,  it  is 
most  necessary  .  .  .  never  to  forget  that  heavy  destruc- 
tion inevitably  falls  either  on  the  young  or  old,  during 
each  generation  or  at  recurrent  intervals."  ^ 

Nay;  from  another  point  of  view,  science  puts  the 
matter  before  us  with  a  wider  sweep  than  this.  Not  only 
does  Nature  show  us  a  lot  of  creatures  living  at  each  other's 
expense  —  the  shortest  summary  of  Darwin's  view  being 
that  brief  and  terrible  cyclus  in  this  very  Hamlet  (of  the 
man  that  eats  the  fish  that  ate  the  worm  that  ate  the  man  in 
his  grave)  —  not  only  do  we  live  at  the  expense  of  others' 
deaths,  but  at  the  expense  of  our  own.  All  action  is  death  : 
the  word  that  now  goes  to  you  goes  leaving  behind  it 
some  dead  atoms  of  tissue  that  died  to  send  it  out ;  the 
very  silent  act  of  your  attention  to  those  words  is  main- 
tained by  the  death  of  tissue  ;  life  is  but  a  slow  death. 
Nay,  who  says  it  all  more  cunningly  than  Chaucer  in  that 
very  couplet  I  have  sometime  quoted  for  a  mere  rhythmic 
illustration  ? 

For  sikerlik  whan  I  was  born,  anon 

Deth  drew  the  tappe  oflyf  and  lete  it  goon. 

This,  then,  is  the  pale  apparition  that  raises  its  head  out 
of  Hamlet  and  confronts  the  rosy  Puck  of  the  dream. 
Here  our  Master  Shakspere  finds  himself  decisively  called 
on  to  rise  into  some  plane  of  thought  where  he  can  look 
with  tolerance  upon  this  Janus-faced  Nature,  one  face  life, 
one  face  death. 

1  See  also  pages  55,  57,  58  of  The  Origin  of  Species. 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE     307 

And  here  in  The  Tempest  he  does  rise  triumphantly 
into  that  plane.  Here,  with  open  eye,  with  unblenching 
front,  he  looks  upon  Nature,  now  as  life,  now  as  death. 
Why  unblenching  ?  Because,  whether  as  life  or  whether 
as  death,  she  is  equally  his  friend  and  helper.  Of  Nature 
as  life  take,  for  instance.  Act  IV,  Scene  I,  line  60  and 
following.     Iris,  in  the  anti-masque,  is  caUing : 

Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 

Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease  ; 

Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep. 

And  flat  meads  thatch'd  with  stover,  them  to  keep  ; 

Thy  banks  with  peonied  and  lilied  brims. 

Which  spongy  April  at  thy  best  betrims. 

To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns  ;  and  thy  broom-groves. 

Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 

and  so  on.  Here  is  Nature  as  fertility,  as  life  :  but  Pros- 
pero  has  not  forgotten  Nature  as  death.  She  comes  in 
upon  this  very  scene.  Presently,  while  the  nymphs  are 
dancing  in  the  anti-masque,  the  stage-direction  says : 

Prospero  starts  suddenly^  and  speaks ;  after  which^  to  a  strange^  hol- 
low^ and  confused  noise ^  they  heavily  vanish. 

Pros.      (Jside)      I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban  and  his  confederates 
Against  my  life  :   the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is  almost  come.       (To  the  Spirits)    Well  done!  avoid;  no  more.' 

Fer.     This  is  strange  :   your  father's  in  some  passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mir.  Never  till  this  day 

Saw  I  him  touch'd  with  anger  so  distemper'd. 

Pros.     You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort. 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd  :  be  cheerful,  sir. 
Our  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors, 


3o8     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 

Arc  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air: 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 

Leave  not  a  rack  behind.      We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  on ;  and  our  little  life 

Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.      Sir,  I  am  vex'd  ; 

Bear  with  my  weakness  ;   my  old  brain  is  troubled  : 

Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity  : 

If  you  be  pleas'd,  retire  into  my  cell, 

And  there  repose  :   a  turn  or  two  I'll  walk. 

To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.  and  Mir.      We  wish  you  peace.  {Exeunt^ 

And  he  has  peace.  Presently,  in  the  end  of  the  same 
scene,  we  look  upon  him  using  the  powers  of  Nature  to 
bring  about  good  ends.  Caliban,  Trinculo,  and  Stephano 
are  seen.      The  stage-direction  is  : 

A  noise  of  hunters  heard.  Enter  divers  spirits.,  in  shape  of  hounds^ 
and  hunt  them  about  [that  is,  Caliban  and  Trinculo,  etc.],  Pros- 
pero  and  Ariel  setting  them  on. 

Here  is  a  hunt  to  put  beside  that  of  Theseus  and  Hippo- 
lyta  which  we  just  now  joined. 

Pros.      Hey,  Mountain,  hey  ! 

Ariel.     Silver  !  there  it  goes.  Silver  ! 

Pros.     Fury,  Fury  !  there.  Tyrant,  there  !  hark,  hark  ! 

(Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trinculo  are  driven  out.) 
.   .   .   Let  them  be  hunted  soundly.      At  this  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies  : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom  :   for  a  little 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  (^Exeunt.) 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE      309 

Mark  these  hounds  of  Prospero's.  What  a  different 
breed  they  are  from  those  of  Theseus,  bred  out  of  the 
Spartan  kind  !  Nothing  could  more  finely  typify  the 
great  height  of  Nature-view  to  which  Prospero  is  risen 
above  Theseus  than  the  comparison  of  these  two  hunts. 
Theseus's  hunt  is  the  sport  of  the  young  man  in  that  bar- 
barian time  of  youth  which  recks  not  nor  thinks  at  all  of 
the  pain  of  lower  creatures,  a  time  when  the  man  is  really 
a  beast  among  beasts,  taking  his  pleasure  of  the  bear,  the 
deer,  the  game, —  as  he  calls  it, — just  as  the  pointer  takes 
his  pleasure  of  the  partridge.  To  bay  the  bear,  to  hunt 
the  great  hart  in  May  —  noble  sport :  but  sport  for  whom  ? 
For  Theseus  and  Hippolyta?  But  how  about  the  bear, 
the  deer  ?  No  sport  for  them  to  fly  hither  and  thither  in 
agonies  of  fright,  and  presently  to  be  gashed  and  torn  into 
reeking  strips  by  the  hot-toothed  hounds.^  It  could  not 
be  long  before  Shakspere  would  emerge  into  a  life  that 
looked  with  tenderness  and  reverence  upon  all  creatures  of 
Nature  less  in  degree  than  himself;  it  could  not  be  long 
before  he  would  become  incapable  of  any  pleasure  that 
hinged  merely  upon  the  pain  of  whatever  brute  beast;  it 
could  not  be  long  before  to  him  there  was  more  glory  in 
the  contemplation  of  one  violet  than  in  all  the  bears 
Theseus's  hounds  ever  baited,  and  more  excitement  in 
chasing  the  visions  of  beauty  that  rise  and  fly  about  the 
greenwood  than  in  the  wildest  hunt  of  Theseus  after  the 
greatest  hart  round  Athens,  In  this  passage  from  the 
barbarian  enmity  of  the  boy  against  the  beast  to  the  gentle 
grandeur  of  the  man  which  takes  all  the  beasts  of  the  field 
into  its  love,  and  is  tender  to  them  both  because  they  are 
less  powerful  than  man  and  because  they  are  parts  or  a 
beautiful  Nature,  a  process  of  change  is  involved  which 
presents  a  most  interesting  phase  in  our  more  modern 
times  as  compared  with  Shakspere's.  For  I  think  it  is 
1  Cf.  Charles  Lamb's  story  of  the  mad  dog. 


3IO     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

clear  that,  what  with  modern  physical  science  and  rnodern 
landscape-painting  and  modern  Nature-poetry,  we  have 
drawn  even  closer  to  Nature,  we  have  gotten  upon  even 
sweeter  terms  with  her,  than  Shakspere  did  or  could  in  the 
state  of  Nature-knowledge  at  his  time.  The  modern 
world  has  emerged,  as  Shakspere  emerged,  from  what  we 
may  call  the  barbarism  of  youth  into  what  we  may  simi- 
larly call  the  civilisation  of  maturity.  And  in  the  con- 
tinuation of  just  such  a  process  as  we  have  found  in 
Shakspere  from  the  brutal  hunt  of  Theseus  to  the  moral 
hunt  of  Prospero,  the  one  with  no  greater  aim  than  the 
blood  of  a  poor  beast,  the  other  with  so  high  an  aim  as  the 
reformation  of  an  erring  fellow-man  —  in  such  a  process 
the  general  spirit  of  our  race  has,  I  say,  advanced  beyond 
Shakspere  until  now  this  advance  presents  two  phases,  one 
in  science,  one  in  poetry,  which  are,  I  think,  among  the 
finest  and  most  notable  features  of  the  modern  time.  The 
scientific  phase  shows  itself  in  the  extraordinary  rise  of 
physical  science  during  the  last  hundred  years. ^  Puck  is 
not  dead  :  he  has  only  changed  his  name  to  electricity  and 
increased  his  speed. 

But  besides  the  phase  of  Nature-communion  which  we 
call  physical  science  there  is  the  other  artistic  phase.  Who 
can  walk  among  dear  and  companionable  oaks  without  a 
certain  sense  of  being  in  the  midst  of  a  sweet  and  noble 
company  of  friends  ? 

For  to  him  who  rightly  understands  Nature  she  is 
even  more  than  Ariel  and  Ceres  to  Prospero  ;  she  is  more 
than  a  servant  conquered,  like  Caliban,  to  fetch  wood  and 
draw  water  for  us :  she  is  a  friend  and  comforter  and 
sweetheart. 

But,  at  any  rate,  Prospero  is  on  far  better  terms  with 
Nature   than  was   Theseus^  and  far   better  than  Hamlet. 

1  See  also  chapter  iii. 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE      311 

And  so,  having  used  all  the  faculty  of  Nature  for  beneficent 
ends,  even  her  tempests  and  her  hounding  spirits, —  that 
is,  having  used  Nature  as  life, —  presently,  at  the  end  of 
Act  V,  we  find  him  contemplating  the  use  of  Nature  as 
death  with  a  not  despairing  or  unfriendly  spirit.  "  Sir," 
he  says  to  the  King  and  his  brother  and  all. 

Sir,  I  invite  your  Highness  and  your  train 

To  my  poor  cell,  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 

For  this  one  night  ;   which,  part  of  it,  I'll  waste 

With  such  discourse  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 

Go  quick  away  :   the  story  of  my  life. 

And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by 

Since  I  came  to  this  isle  :  and  in  the  morn 

I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 

Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 

Of  these  our  dear-belov'd  solemnis'd; 

And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 

Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

As  we  have  just  seen,  the  attitude  of  man  towards 
Nature  now  is  even  sweeter  than  that  of  Shakspere.  When 
we  think  how  beautifully  the  modern  man  is  making  love 
to  her,  with  our  modern  physical  science  and  our  mod- 
ern landscape-painting  and  our  modern  Nature-poetry, — 
making  love  to  Nature  and  wedding  her,  after  the  long  war 
of  our  less  happy  ancestors  with  Physical  Nature, —  surely 
the  modern  man  may  say  to  her,  as  Theseus  said  to 
Hippolyta : 

[Nature] ,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword. 
And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries  ; 
But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 
With  pomp,  with  triumph  and  with  revelling. 

In  short,  to  review  in  one  word  the  results  of  our  study 
during  the  last  five  lectures,  just  as  when  we  studied  these 


312     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

three  plays  with  reference  to  their  verse-structure  by  means 
of  the  Metrical  Tests,  and  found  an  enormous  advance 
from  this  Dream  Period  to  this  Ideal  Period,  in  Shakspere's 
artistic  management  of  those  curiously  opposed  esthetic  de- 
mands of  the  ear  which  must  be  satisfied  in  order  to  make 
beautiful  verse,  so  now,  when  we  have  examined  these 
same  plays  with  reference  to  the  moral  ideals  they  show  us 
of  the  attitude  of  man  towards  the  supernatural,  towards 
his  fellow-man,  and  towards  Physical  Nature,  we  find  the 
moral  problem  to  be  essentially  like  the  artistic  problem  ; 
we  find  it  to  consist  of  moral  oppositions  meeting  the  man 
at  every  turn  just  as  esthetic  oppositions  meet  the  artist  at 
every  turn  ;  we  find  that  just  as  the  ear  would  have  regular- 
ity, and  at  the  same  time  would  have  irregularity,  through 
a  hundred  phases  of  opposition,  in  verse,  so  life  insists 
upon  its  phases  of  opposition  —  the  control  of  the  super- 
natural against  the  free  will  of  the  man,  the  love  of  the 
fellow-man  against  the  love  of  self,  the  helpfulness  of  Phy- 
sical Nature  against  the  obstructiveness  of  Physical  Nature  : 
and  just  as  we  found  Shakspere  accepting  the  esthetic  laws  of 
opposition  and  using  them  to  make  heavenly  ideals  of  music, 
so  we  have  found  him  accepting  the  moral  laws  of  opposi- 
tion —  instead  of  blindly  fighting  them,  as  so  many  of  us 
do  in  so  many  various  ways  —  and  using  them  in  heavenly 
ideals  of  behaviour. 

And  now  allow  me  to  recall  your  attention  for  a  brief 
moment  to  the  ground  we  have  passed  over,  so  that  I  may 
leave  you  with  some  definite  outline  in  your  minds  of  at 
least  the  main  points  of  our  inquiry. 

You  will  remember  that  we  began  by  discovering  that 
every  formal  poem  is  primarily  a  series  of  sounds, —  either 
of  sounds  for  the  ear  or  of  sound-signs  for  the  eye  which 
are  translated  into  sounds  by  the  ear, —  and  that,  this  being 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    NATURE     313 

the  case,  the  science  of  verse  was  really  one  of  the  physical 
sciences,  being  the  knowledge  of  the  relations  between  the 
words  of  a  poem  considered  strictly  as  sounds.      We  then 
found  that  sounds  can  differ  from  each  other  only  in  four 
ways,  namely,  in  point  of  duration,  as  longer  or  shorter; 
in  point  of  pitch,  as  higher  or  lower  ;  in  point  of  intensity, 
as  louder  or  softer ;  and  in  point  of  tone-colour,  as  flute- 
colour,  violin-colour,   horn-colour,   reed-colour,    and    the 
like.^     Now  when  we  took  all  the  possible  eifects  of  verse 
and  referred  them  to  these  four  physical  principles  of  the 
differences  between  sounds,  we  found  them  straightway  ar- 
ranging themselves  into  three  great  classes,  namely,  of  the 
rhythms  of  verse,  the  tunes  of  verse,  and  the  colours  of 
verse.     I  then  proceeded  to  discuss  these  separately.     I 
set  before  you  several  different  sorts  of  rhythm,  especially 
the  iambic,  the  dactylic,  and  the  trochaic,  explained  the 
peculiar  force  of  each,  and  illustrated  them  from  both  An- 
glo-Saxon and  modern  poetry  ;  and  I  ascended  from  these 
details  of  rhythm  to  that  general  view  of  the  subject  in  the 
course  of  which  we  found  that  as  modern  science  has  gen- 
eralised the  whole  universe  into  a  great  congeries  of  modes 
of  motion,  so  rhythm  pervades  all  these  modes  :  everything 
not  only  moves,  but  moves  rhythmically,  from  the  ether- 
atom  in  light  to  the  great  space  globes  ;  and  so  we  get  back 
by  the  most  modern  scientific   path   to   the  old  dream  of 
Pythagoras   which  blindly  guessed  out  the  music  of  the 
spheres. 

Passing  from  rhythm  to  the  tunes  of  verse,  we  found 
first  that  a  large  part  of  the  ordinary  communications 
of  speech  are  made  by  tunes  which  are  spoken,  not  by 
words ;   I    showed   that   the   intervals    through   which    the 

1  As  noted  in  chapter  i,  much  of  this  having  been  treated  finally  by  Mr. 
technical  discussion  was  omitted  Lanier  in  The  Science  of  English 
from  the  present  work,  the  subject      Verse. 


314     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

voice    moves    in    speech    constitute    tunes   just    as    well 
marked  as  those  which  are  sung ;  and  that  we  had  some- 
how accumulated  a  great  stock  of  these  little  speech-tunes, 
which  so  modified  the  meanings  of  tunes  that  the  same 
words  might  be  made  to  have  a  dozen  different  significa- 
tions, according  to  the  tunes  in  which  they  were  spoken. 
I  then  illustrated  several  of  these  tunes  by  writing  them 
in    musical    notes,  explaining    that    they    could    only    be 
written    approximately,   because    the    present    system    of 
musical   notation  provides  signs  only  for  whole  tones  and 
half-tones,  while  the   speaking  voice  uses  not  only   these 
intervals  but  a  great  many  smaller  ones  —  thirds,  fourths, 
fifths,  and  certainly  as  small  as  eighths  of  tones.      I  went 
on  to  show  how  enormously  the  resources   of  language 
were  increased  by  the  use  of  these  tunes,  with  which  the 
simplest  set  of  ordinary  words  might  be  made  to  take  on 
the   most  delicate    shades    of  meaning,  now   tender,   now 
savage,  now  ironical,  now  non-committal,  and  so  on.     An 
example  of  this  is  the  German  comedy  called  Come  Here, 
in   which   the   powers    of  a  young   actress   are   tested    by 
making  her  entire  role  consist  of  the  two  words  Come  here, 
with  which  she  carries  her  auditors  through  many  phases 
of  emotion  by  simply  uttering  the  same  words  in  different 
tunes.      I   finally  showed   how,  in    the  long  development 
of  art,  music  and  words  had  gradually  dissolved  the  close 
union  which  subsisted  between  them  in  the  Egyptian  and 
Greek   times,  when   the  song   and   the   musical   declama- 
tion were  the   main  forms  of  music,  and   how  they  had 
finally  differentiated   themselves  into  two  arts,  the  one  an 
art  of  pure  tone  distinct  from  words  and  finding  its  ex- 
pression in  the  purely  instrumental  orchestra,  the  other  an 
art  of  pure  speech-tunes,  distinct  from  musical  tones  and 
finding  its  expression  in  the  recitation  and  public  reading 
which  have  become  so  popular  in  modern  times. 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE     315 

I  then  advanced  to  the  third  class  of  poetic  effects,  to 
wit,  that  of  the  colours  of  verse.  We  found  that  the 
vowels  and  consonants  which  make  up  words  would  be 
wholly  undlstinguishable  from  each  other  except  for  their 
differences  in  that  peculiar  matter  which  is  called  tone- 
quality,  or  tone-colour,  or,  as  Mr.  Tyndall  translates  the 
German  Klang-Farbe^  clang-tint.  As  the  fiute-quality  or 
colour  differs  from  the  oboe-quality  or  colour,  that  from 
the  violin-quality,  and  that  from  the  horn-quality,  so 
the  vowel  0  differs  from  the  vowel  d",  that  from  the  vowel 
a^  and  so  on  ;  and  only  in  this  way.  I  proved  this  to  you, 
and  illustrated  it  in  several  ways,  mentioning  Wheatstone 
and  Helmholtz  as  the  scientists  to  whom  we  owe  the  most 
weighty  obligations  for  their  brilliant  discoveries  in  this 
matter.  Inasmuch,  then,  as  all  vowels  and  consonants, 
scientifically  considered,  are  phenomena  of  tone-colour,  all 
those  great  verse-effects  which  depend  upon  vowels  and 
consonants  are  effects  of  tone-colour,  and  we  agreed  to  call 
them  the  Colours  of  Verse.  I  then  directed  your 
attention  to  four  great  varieties  of  effects  based  upon 
vowels  and  consonants  as  such,  to  wit,  rimes,  alliterations, 
agreeable  distributions  of  successive  vowels  in  a  line,  and 
agreeable  junctions  of  the  terminal  consonants  of  one 
word  with  the  initial  consonant  of  the  next  word.  Treat- 
ing these  separately,  I  defined  exactly  what  a  rime  is,  in 
contradistinction  to  the  vague  ideas  commonly  held  upon 
it ;  and  I  then  showed  how  the  finest  use  of  rimes  is  not 
for  mere  jingle,  but  to  mark  off  rhythms  for  the  ear.  I 
then  gave  you  various  examples  ot  the  artistic  use  by 
poets  of  the  other  colours  of  verse,  the  alliterations,  the 
distribution  of  vowels,  the  junctions  of  consonants,  and 
several  other  matters  which  make  or  mar  a  verse  but 
which  would  not  ordinarily  be  thought  of  by  those  who 
have   never  done   the  actual   work   of  the   poet.      1  then 


3t6     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

showed  you  how  the  rime,  which  brings  together  two 
sounds  differing  as  to  their  consonant-quaHty  but  aHke  as 
to  their  vowel-quality  (go,  so)y  was  a  physical  analogue  of 
the  metaphor  which  links  together  two  conceptions,  that 
differ  generally,  by  some  special  point  of  resemblance  ;  and 
I  advanced  from  this  to  the  conception  that  the  poet,  who 
deals  in  metaphor,  thus  puts  the  universe  together,  while 
the  scientist  pulls  it  to  pieces,  the  poet  being  a  synthetic 
workman,  the  scientist  an  analytic  workman  ;  and  how 
thus  it  is  clear  that  while  the  scientist  plucks  apart  the 
petals  of  faith,  it  is  the  business  of  the  modern  poet  to  set 
them  together  again  and  so  keep  the  rose  of  religion  whole. 

This  ended  the  first  division  of  lectures  on  the  Tech- 
nic  of  Verse.      1  then  passed  on  to  the  next  division. 

Starting  at  the  very  beginning  of  English  poetry  in  the 
seventh  century,  I  gave  you  some  account  of  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry,  of  its  relations  to  Chaucer  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury and  to  the  Scotch  poets  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
finally  to  Shakspere.  In  the  course  of  these  lectures  I  en- 
deavoured to  place  before  you  in  some  vivid  way  the 
change  in  man's  attitude  towards  the  supernatural  (or 
God),  towards  Nature,  and  towards  his  fellow-man  —  illus- 
trating these  contrasts  by  three  sets  of  poems  :  The  Ad- 
dress of  the  Soul  to  the  Dead  Body  and  Hamlet ,  Beowulf  and 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  and  St.  Juliana  and  Love's 
Labour  s  Lost.  We  found  in  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
an  entire  breaking  down  of  the  restraint  and  terror  between 
man  and  Nature  —  so  noticeable  in  Beowulf  and  all  the 
early  poetry  —  and  almost  as  startling  a  change  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Elizabethan  towards  woman.  I  introduced  to 
you  Cynewulf,  whose  name,  but  not  whose  figure,  has 
come  to  us  ;  and  I  read  you  the  Anglo-Saxon  poem  in 
which  we  find  his  name  cunningly  concealed  in  Runic 
letters   which    are    embedded    in    the    body   of  the    text. 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    NATURE     317 

In  the  course  of  these  lectures  I  read  you  in  full  three 
notable  Anglo-Saxon  poems.  The  Phoenix^  The  Legend  of  St. 
Juliana^  and  The  Address  of  the  Soul  to  the  Dead  Body,  and 
gave  you  some  illustrations  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  text.  In 
the  course  of  these  lectures  I  also  presented  several  readings 
from  Chaucer,  from  the  Scotch  poets  William  Dunbar  and 
Gavin  Douglas,  and  from  the  mystery  plays  of  the 
Towneley  Series.  Having  thus  placed  before  you  some 
idea  of  the  relations  of  Shakspere  to  the  first  thousand 
years  of  our  poetry, —  for  we  found  some  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  poems  (notably  Beowidf  in  its  earlier  form)  taking 
us  back  at  least  to  the  sixth  century,  a  thousand  years  be- 
fore Shakspere  was  born, —  I  passed  to  the  minor  poetry 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  with  the  view  of  showing  his  re- 
lations to  his  own  time,  and  gave  you  four  lectures  on  the 
sonnet-writers  from  Surrey  and  Wyatt  to  Drummond  and 
Habington.  In  the  course  of  these  we  found  that  the 
sonnet  has  never  been  allowed  its  full  importance  as  the 
primal  form  of  modern  English  poetry  ;  that  Surrey  and 
Wyatt,  while  they  borrowed  the  form  from  Italy,  soon  nat- 
uralised it,  and  it  became  then,  as  it  has  remained  ever 
since,  the  favourite  poetic  vehicle  for  every  poet  who  wishes 
to  express  his  own  most  private  personal  emotions.  In- 
vestigating, then,  the  nature  of  the  sonnet,  we  found  that 
every  good  sonnet  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  little 
drama,  with  an  opening,  a  plot,  and  a  crisis  or  catastrophe 
at  the  end.  We  then  examined  with  special  detail  the 
sonnets  of  Henry  Constable,  Samuel  Daniel,  William 
Habington,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  William  Drummond  of  Haw- 
thornden,  Barnaby  Barnes,  and  Shakspere ;  for  the  son- 
nets of  my  old  favourite  Bartholomew  Griffin  I  referred 
you  to  my  paper  on  that  poet,  which,  by  the  way,  has  since 
appeared  in  the  International  Review  for  March.^  In  dis- 
1  See,  in  Music  and  Poetry,    "  A  Forgotten  English  Poet." 


3i8     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

cussing  the  sonnets  of  Shakspere  we  came  upon  many  clear 
features  which  would  go  to  make  up  a  good  representation 
of  the  spiritual  visage  of  the  man  :  we  found  him  tender  ;  we 
found  him  looking  to  the  fate  of  his  poetry  in  future  times; 
we  found  him  setting  forth  the  very  loftiest  ideal  of  manly 
friendship  ;  we  found  him  forgiving  freely  the  most  desper- 
ate crime  which  man  can  commit  against  man  ;  we  found 
him  suffering  anguish  without  bitterness  and  contemplating 
death  without  regret. 

In  the  next  two  lectures,  wishing  to  bring  Shakspere 
before  us  in  a  sort  of  physical  and  tangible  way,  I  endea- 
voured to  show  how  he  talked  ;  and  for  this  purpose  I  dis- 
cussed the  pronunciation  of  English  in  Shakspere's  time. 
We  found  it  differing  widely  from  our  own  pronunciation, 
the  as  being  greatly  broader,  the  /'s  being  rounder,  the  e's 
less  reedy  than  our  own.  I  then  gave  you  more  exact  de- 
tails of  this  pronunciation,  explained  the  palaeotype  sys- 
tem of  indicating  it,  and  put  you  in  possession  of  the  main 
researches  of  Mr.  Alexander  J.  Ellis,  the  English  scholar 
to  whose  monumental  work  on  this  subject  we  owe  most  of 
our  knowledge  of  it.  I  mentioned  also  the  labours  of  our 
own  countrymen  Messrs.  Noyes  and  Peirce,  and  Mr. 
Richard  Grant  White,  in  this  connection.  I  then  illus- 
trated the  whole  matter  by  reading  you  part  of  a  play  in 
the  Shakspere  pronunciation  as  it  has  been  recovered  by 
Ellis  and  his  co-labourers. 

After  this  side-glance  at  some  of  the  literary  conditions 
of  Shakspere's  time,  we  proceeded  to  study  other  condi- 
tions, artistic  and  social. 

In  the  next  two  lectures  I  discussed  the  music  of 
Shakspere's  time.  I  gave  you  numerous  citations  from 
Shakspere's  works  to  show  not  only  that  music  was  the 
art  which  he  loved  best  of  all,  but  that  he  had  an  insight 
into  the  depths  of  music  which  was  quite  wonderful  con- 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    NATURE     319 

sidering  what  kind  of  music  he  must  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  hear.  In  this  connection  I  unfolded  to  you  with 
some  detail  the  slight  progress  which  was  made  by  music 
from  the  time  of  Gregory  to  that  of  Palestrina,  and 
showed  you  how  almost  all  that  we  call  music,  especially 
orchestral  music,  is  a  wholly  abrupt  modern  development 
dating  from  nearly  a  hundred  years  after  Shakspere  died. 
I  then  explained  the  discant,  and  passed  to  the  different 
kinds  of  music  in  vogue  in  the  sixteenth  century  :  the 
church  music,  with  its  motetts,  its  canons,  its  endless  fugues  ; 
the  secular  song-music,  with  its  rounds,  catches,  ballads, 
and  Northern  tunes,  or  Scotch  music  ;  the  instrumental 
music  for  the  organ,  the  virginals,  the  lute,  etc.  ;  the 
dance-tunes  —  the  pavan,  the  galliard,  the  paspy,  the 
morris,  etc.  I  showed  by  numerous  quotations  from 
Shakspere  and  contemporary  works  how  universal  was  the 
knowledge  of  music  —  that  is,  of  pricksong,  as  it  was  called 
—  in  his  time,  and  how  it  was  a  common  part  of  every  man's 
education  that  he  should  be  able  to  sing  his  part  in  a  part- 
song  ;  and  I  gave  some  account  of  the  musical  instruments 
of  the  time,  the  virginals,  the  lute,  the  chests  of  viols,  the 
recorder,  and  the  like. 

I  then  took  up  the  domestic  life  of  Shakspere's  time. 
For  the  purpose  of  bringing  his  whole  daily  environment 
vividly  before  you,  I  constructed  a  little  thread  of  story 
which  showed  us  Shakspere  now  in  his  home  in  Henley 
Street,  Stratford;  now  wandering  through  the  sweet  War- 
wickshire woods  to  the  cottage  of  the  Hathaways  a  mile  off; 
now  happening  by  a  lucky  accident  to  witness  the  gorgeous 
pageants  with  which  Leicester  entertained  Queen  Elizabeth 
at  Kenilworth  in  1575  ;  now  attending  the  performance  of 
Heywood's  interlude  of  The  Four  P's  at  Warwick ;  now 
hearing  a  neighbour  read  Gosson's  Schoole  of  Abuse  ^  a  lively 
book  of  the  period;  now  running  off  to  London  and  hear- 


320     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

ing  a  sermon  at  Paul's  Cross  and  two  plays  at  the  Black- 
friars  Theatre.  In  this  connection  I  sketched  also  those 
wonderful  world-events  which  had  happened  in  various 
countries  since  1492  up  to  Shakspere's  birth,  and  side  by 
side  with  them  I  placed  a  number  of  small  events,  such  as 
the  wearing  of  the  first  silk  stockings,  the  raising  of  the 
first  garden  vegetables,  the  beginning  of  the  use  of  forks  at 
table,  and  the  like,  in  England,  which  belong  to  this  period. 
In  close  conjunction  with  these  outer  events  I  laid  before 
you  a  chronological  arrangement  of  Shakspere's  plays  as 
representing  the  inner  events  which  took  place  in  his  soul 
during  his  marvellous  life.  In  one  or  two  of  these  con- 
nections I  read  before  you,  in  their  complete  forms,  the 
following  works  :  Robert  Laneham's  letter  describing  the 
Kenilworth  festivities ;  John  Hey  wood's  interlude  of 
The  Four  P's ;  Latimer's  sermons  before  King  Edward 
VI,  in  the  Westminster  Palace  garden,  during  Lent  of 
1 549  ;  Nicholas  Udall's  play  of  Ralph  Royster  Doyster,  the 
first  English  comedy  ;  and  Sackville  and  Norton's  play  of 
GorboduCj  the  first  English  tragedy. 

Next  I  gave  a  brief  glance  at  the  verse  tests  with 
which  modern  criticism  has  begun  to  confirm  those  chron- 
ological arrangements  of  Shakspere's  plays  that  give  us 
such  a  startling  insight  into  his  moral  growth  —  tests 
which  mark  the  rise  of  exact  method  in  the  science  of 
criticism.  We  then  went  on,  in  the  light  of  the  physical 
theory  of  verse  already  enunciated,  to  study  the  Metrical 
Tests.  Thus  armed,  we  proceeded  to  try  both  the  verse 
theory  and  the  Metrical  Tests  by  examining  three  plays, 
representing  the  three  periods  of  Shakspere's  artistic  and 
moral  growth,  to  see  if  the  results  of  technical  analysis  and 
the  results  of  moral  analysis  would  agree  :  and  we  have 
now  just  found  that  nothing  could  be  more  perfect  than 
the  precisely  parallel  advance  which  Shakspere  displays  in 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE      321 

The  Tempest  over  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream ^  both  in 
the  technical  beauty  of  his  verse  and  the  moral  beauty  of 
his  ideals  of  behaviour;  and  we  have  finally  connected 
these  two,  technical  beauty  and  moral  beauty,  finding  that 
technical  beauty  consists  in  the  harmonious  adjustment  of 
esthetic  oppositions,  while  moral  beauty  consists  in  the 
harmonious  adjustment  of  moral  oppositions  :  so  that,  pass- 
ing to  their  common  element,  we  find  the  verse  technic 
and  the  moral  technic  to  be  simply  two  phases  of  the 
artistic  adjustment  of  oppositions. 

This  appears  much  plainer  in  the  concrete  than  in 
the  abstract.  Here  is  a  little  strain  from  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream ^  which  I  have  opposed  with  one  from  The 
Tempest. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream ^  Act  I,  Scene  I  : 

Helena.      How  happy  some  o'er  other  some  can  be  ! 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  what  of  that  ?      Demetrius  thinks  not  so  ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know :   .   .   . 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind  ; 
And  therefore  is  wing'd  Cupid  painted  blind. 

The  Tempest : 

Prospero.     Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and 
groves ; 
And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back;  you  demi-puppets  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green-sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites ;  and  you  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew  ;  by  whose  aid  — 
Weak  masters  though  ye  be  —  I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds. 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azur'd  vault 


322     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

Set  roaring  war :   to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt ;  the  strong-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar  :   groves  at  my  command 
Have  wak'd  their  sleepers,  op'd,  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art. 

Let  us  in  the  briefest  way  run  over  the  technical  particulars 
in  which  the  latter  verse  is  superior  to  the  former.  You 
remember  we  found  that  a  number  of  patterns  run 
throughout  every  verse-structure  which  in  effect  constitute 
two  opposing  systems,  the  regular  system  and  the  irregu- 
lar system.  Now  here  in  this  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
passage  the  regular  system  predominates  to  such  an 
extent  as  to  make  the  verse  palpably  stiff.  If  we  examine 
it  with  reference  to  all  the  divisions  of  verse-phenomena 
we  studied,  its  stiffness  and  over-regularity  become  more 
apparent.  Those  divisions  were  the  tunes,  the  rhythms, 
and  the  tone-colours  of  verse.  Well,  consider  these 
tunes.  Each  line,  you  observe,  has  its  tune,  precisely 
balanced  by  the  tune  of  the  next  line ;  the  cadence  of  the 
tune  falls  always  at  the  same  point  —  the  end  of  the  line  ; 
and  thus  all  the  tune-cadences  belong  to  the  regular  system. 
Again,  in  the  rhythms  the  regular  system  prevails  just 
as  overwhelmingly :  the  primary  rhythm  is  perfect,  all 
along,  short  syllable,  long  syllable,  short,  long : 

/^  /^  y\  /^  /^ 

How  hap-  I  py  some  |  o'er  oth-  |  er  some  j  can  be 

Again,  the  secondary  rhythm,  the  bar  system,  is  unbroken; 
each  bar  has  exactly  two  sounds  to  the  bar.  Again,  the 
tertiary  rhythm,  the  line  system,  is  rigidly  maintained ; 
every  line  has  exactly  five  bars,  exactly  ten  syllables, 
and  this  group  of  five  bars  is  inexorably  marked  off  for 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    NATURE     323 

the  ear  by  the  recurrent  rime  at  the  end  of  each  line. 
And  thirdly,  to  go  no  farther  with  the  rhythmic  examina- 
tion, if  we   look  at   the   tone-colours  we  find  the  e  —  e^ 

0  —  0,  ind — ind  linking  themselves  together  into  perfectly 
regular  patterns  of  tone-colour  strikingly  marked  off  for 
the  ear.  All  rime  ;  every  line  end-stopped  ;  not  a  single 
weak  ending,  or  double  ending,  or  change  of  the  rhythmic 
accent. 

But  now,  if  we  turn  from  this  to  The  Tempest  passage, 
we  must  needs  be  amazed  at  the  multitudinous  means 
which  are  here  used  of  varying  all  this  regular  system  of 
verse-effects.  Here,  pursuing  the  same  order  of  exam- 
ination, if  we  look  at  the  tunes,  we  find  that  the  first  line 
has  its  tune-cadence  at  the  end,  while  the  second  opposes 
this  with  a  grand,  long,  sweeping  phrase  of  two  lines  and  a 
half,  like  the  long  phrases  of  Bach  and  Beethoven,  to  which 

1  referred  when  we  were  studying  this  effect ;  here,  again, 
we  have  a  long  tune-phrase,  here  a  shorter  one,  here  a 
shorter  one,  here  a  great  sweeping  one,  then  a  shorter  one, 
a  shorter  one,  and  a  grand  one;  and  so  on  —  the  regular- 
ity nobly  relieved  with  irregularity.  Leaving  the  tunes  of 
verse,  if  we  look  at  the  rhythms  we  get  the  same  result. 
The  primary  rhythm,  that  is,  the  alternation  of  short 
and  long  sound,  and  the  secondary  rhythm,  that  is,  the 
regular  grouping  of  a  short  and  a  long  sound  into  bars,  is 
still  kept  up,  for  the  regular  system ;  but  the  larger 
rhythmic  groups,  the  line  group  and  phrase  group,  are 
greatly  more  irregular.  First,  there  is  no  rime  to  mark 
off  the  line  into  regular  groups  of  five  bars  and  ten  sounds 
each  ;  secondly,  the  end-stopped  line  (regular)  is  finely 
relieved  by  these  run-on  lines  ending  in  "  foot,"  "  that," 
"rejoice,"  "aid,"  "  bedimm'd,"  "vault,"  "up,"  and  so 
on  ;  in  fact,  the  whole  line-grouping  is  broken  up,  and 
nearly  every  phrase,  instead  of  ending  rigidly  at  the  end  of 


324     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

the  line,  ends  somewhere  in  the  body  of  the  line;  again, 
the  weak  ending,  that  carries  out  the  same  principle  with 
the  run-on  line  ;  again,  the  double  endings,  "  fly  him," 
"  pastime,"  "  thunder,"  "  promontory  "  (four  double  end- 
ings, you  see,  in  this  short  passage,  though  there  are  only 
twenty-nine  in  the  whole  of  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream)y  relieve  the  bar  system  by  presenting  the  ear  with 
bars  consisting  of  three  sounds  to  relieve  the  long  succes- 
sion of  bars  which  consist  of  only  two  sounds  ;  and  finally 
the  frequent  shiftings  of  the  rhythmic  accent  from  its 
normal  place,  as  "  and  do  fly  him,"  "  when  he  comes 
back,"  "puppets  that,"  "green-sour,"  "to  the  dread  rat- 
tling thunder,"  etc.,  all  show  us  a  great  number  of  irregular 
elements  charmingly  introduced  into  the  rhythmic  pattern. 

And  finally,  as  to  the  tone-colour  patterns  :  we  find  the 
vowel-colours  varying  in  almost  every  contiguous  word,  we 
find  the  consonant-colours  varying,  scarcely  any  alliteration, 
scarcely  any  consonant-syzygies,  in  short,  aii  the  tone- 
colour  effects  making  for  the  irregular  system,  as  pleas- 
ingly opposed  to  the  regular  system.  And  with  what  a 
result !  These  lines  are  a  purely  vocal  pleasure  to  pro- 
nounce, a  purely  auditory  pleasure  to  hear  as  the  ear  goes 
on  and  coordinates  the  elements  of  all  these  rhythmic  pat- 
terns, without  reference  to  the  wondrous  ideal  pictures 
which  they  set  before  the  mind  ! 

Surely  the  genius  which  in  the  heat  and  struggle  of 
ideal  creation  has  the  enormous  control  and  temperance  to 
arrange  and  adjust  in  harmonious  proportions  all  these 
esthetic  antagonisms  of  verse,  surely  that  is  the  same 
genius  which  in  the  heat  and  battle  of  life  will  arrange  the 
moral  antagonisms  with  similar  self-control  and  temper- 
ance. Surely  there  is  a  point  of  technic  to  which  the 
merely  clever  artist  may  reach,  but  beyond  which  he  may 
never  go,  for  lack  of  moral  insight ;  surely  your  Robert 
Greene,  your  Kit  Marlowe,  your  Tom  Nash,  clever  poets 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE      325 

all,  may  write  clever  verses  and  arrange  clever  dramas  ;  but 
if  we  look  at  their  own  flippant  lives  and  pitiful  deaths  and 
their  small  ideals  in  their  dramas,  and  compare  them,  tech- 
nic  for  technic,  life  for  life,  morality  for  morality,  with  this 
majestic  Shakspere,  who  starts  in  a  dream,  who  presently 
encounters  the  real,  who  after  a  while  conquers  it  to  its 
proper  place  (for  Shakspere,  mind  you,  does  not  forget 
the  real ;  he  will  not  be  a  beggar  nor  a  starveling ;  we  have 
documents  which  show  how  he  made  money,  how  he 
bought  land  at  Stratford  ;  we  have  Richard  Quincy's  letter 
to  "  my  lovveinge  good  frend  and  contreyman  Mr.  Wm. 
Shakspere,  deliver  thees,"  asking  the  loan  of  thirty  pounds 
"  uppon  Mr.  Bushells  and  my  securytee,"  showing  that 
Shakspere  had  money  to  lend),  and  finally  turns  it  into  the 
ideal  in  T^he  'Tempest ;  if  we  compare,  I  say,  Greene,  Mar- 
lowe, Nash,  with  Shakspere,  surely  the  latter  is  a  whole 
heaven  above  them  in  the  music  of  his  verse,  as  well  as  in 
the  temperance  and  prudence  of  his  life,  as  well  also  as  in 
the  superb  height  of  his  later  moral  ideals.  Surely,  in 
fine,  there  is  a  point  of  mere  technic  in  art  beyond  which 
nothing  but  moral  greatness  can  attain,  because  it  is  at  this 
point  that  the  moral  range,  the  religious  fervour,  the  true 
seership  and  prophethood  of  the  poet,  come  in  and  lift 
him  to  higher  views  of  all  things. 

For,  indeed,  when  we  look  upon  man,  vibrating  between 
these  oppositions,  what  is  he  more  like,  each  in  his  little  life 
making  his  little  round  of  moral  rhythm,  than  one  of 
these  tone-colours,  one  of  these  tunes,  one  of  these 
rhythmic  elements,  here  in  the  verse  ? 

I  once  had  a  quaint  illustration  of  all  these  complex  re- 
lations to  other  lives,  and  to  the  final  form  and  purpose  of 
things,  with  which  perhaps  I  may  fitly  conclude  this  lec- 
ture and  this  course,  particularly  as  showing  the  power  of 
the  small  to  illustrate  the  large.  I  was  one  day  wandering 
on  a  lonesome  horseback  stroll  along  the  beach  of  the  At- 


:^i6     SHAKSPERE    AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

lantic  Ocean  on  the  Georgia  coast.  It  was  late  in  an 
afternoon  of  the  early  summer,  and  the  sun  was  near  the 
horizon.  Presently  I  left  the  beach  and  turned  into  a 
captivating  side  road  that  curved  off  through  the  deep 
woods.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  half-tropical  perfumes 
of  wood  flowers  ;  the  sparkleberry  hung  in  great  clusters 
along  the  narrow  roadway,  the  long  vines  trailed  and  wove 
their  tangles  about  oak  and  pine,  and  between  the  big 
trunks  of  the  trees  the  level  sun  sent  shafts  of  rich  yellow 
light  slanting  across  the  road.  Presently  one  of  these 
shafts  of  light  happened  to  fall  upon  a  great  swarm  of  a 
sort  of  large  silver-winged  gnats  which  is  peculiar  to  that 
region,  and  I  stopped  my  horse  and  sat  still  to  observe  the 
motions  of  the  swarm.  They  were  dancing  in  the  light, 
just  in  front  of  me,  immediately  above  a  shrub  which  is 
their  home.  This  singular  gnat-dance  seemed  —  and  I 
believe  that  is  the  conclusion  of  naturalists  —  to  be  sim- 
ply for  pleasure  ;  and  it  was  most  curious  to  note  the  gen- 
eral outline  of  the  figures  formed  by  the  myriads  of  tiny 
silver  creatures  in  the  sunbeam.  Apparently  in  response 
to  the  commands  of  some  leader,  this  general  outline 
would  change  every  moment :  sometimes  the  swarm  would 
suddenly  extend  upward  and  make  a  quite  perfect  column  ; 
then  it  would  contract  into  a  lozenge-shaped  figure  ;  then 
swell  into  a  circle  ;  then  form  a  square ;  and  so  on  —  each 
of  these  outlines  being  formed  by  minute  variations  in  the 
direction  of  flight  of  each  individual  gnat,  for  each  was  vi- 
brating rapidly  in  his  own  little  independent  round ;  and 
as  each  extended  his  excursion  this  way  or  that,  the  main 
figure  of  the  entire  swarm  would  result.  Each  gnat  was, 
in  short,  ^.rhythmic  atom^  and  nothing  could  better  illustrate 
the  varieties  of  form  producible  in  nature  by  the  changing 
motions  of  the  atoms  underlying  those  forms.  Then  the 
swarm,  as  it  ever  kept  dancing,  changing,  would  make  me 


MAN'S    RELATIONS    TO    NATURE     327 

think  of  that  pretty  conceit  of  Sir  WiUiam  Davenant's, 
who,  in  describing  a  dance  in  the  seventeenth  century,  said  : 

And  had  the  music  silent  been 
The  eye  a  moving  tune  had  seen. 

The  swarm  was  a  moving  tune.  And  again, as  with  a  sudden 
whir  of  all  the  little  dancers  the  figure  would  change  to  a  loz- 
enge, it  was  like  those  ludicrous  attempts  in  the  sixteenth 
century  to  make  rhythm  visible  to  the  eye  by  changing  the 
length  of  each  line  so  that  the  words  would  present  a  defi- 
nite form,  such  as  this,  which  was  called  the  Lozenge  form. 
This  is  a  love-letter  from  Temir  the  warrior  to  Kermesine, 
who  has  captured  him. 

THE    LOZENGE  :    FROM    PUTTENHAM 

Fiue 

Sore  batailes 

Manfully    fought 

In        blouddy      fielde 

With  bright  blade  in  hand 

Hath  Temir  won  &  forst  to  yeld 

Many    a    Captaine    strong    &    stoute 

And    many   a   king   his   Crowne  to  vayle, 

Conquering        large       countreys       and       land, 

Yet         ne        uer        wanne        I        vie         to        rie, 

I         speake         it         to         my         greate        glo        rie, 

So         deare         and         joy  full  vn         to  me, 

As        when  I  did        first        con        quere         thee 

O         Kerme         sine,     of         all         myne  foes 

The       most       cruell,    of      all       myne       woes 

The  smartest,  the  sweetest 

My  proude  Con  quest 

My  ri  chest  pray 

O  once  a  daye 

Lend     me     thy     sight 

Whose  only  light 

Keepes    me 

Aliue. 


328     SHAKSPERE   AND    HIS    FORERUNNERS 

But    acrain    sometimes   the   whole   swarm,  animated   by  a 
sudden  impulse,  would  sweep  down  into  the  dark  leaves 
of  its  home  shrub  like  magic  :   nothing  would  be  seen,  and 
I    could    scarcely    realise    that    the    air   was    so    suddenly 
r    vacant ;  then    it  would  as  suddenly  sweep  out  again,  and 
there  would  be  the  little  dancers,  each   holding  his  little 
rhvthmic  round.     And  here,  as  the   sunbeam   lighted  up 
these  dancing  gnats,  now   rushing   forth   into   space,  now 
collapsing  into  a  central  point,  one  could  not  but  think  of 
that  enormous  idea  of  Edgar  Poe's  in  his  Eureka^  where 
he  developes  from  the  simple  postulates  of  attraction  and 
repulsion  and  a   uniform   matter   the  course  of  creation  : 
how  the  matter  is  diffused  out  into  space,  how  the   two 
opposite  principles  immediately  set  individual  portions  of 
it  whirling  off  into  worlds  and  stars  and  systems,  how  the 
very  same  principle  must  after  a  while  compel  these  same 
worlds  to  cluster  back  about  their  systems  and  the  whole 
to  return  into  a  central   point,  the   Creator,  to   be  again 
diffused  into  space,  again  reabsorbed,  and   so  on,  until  he 
winds  up  with  that  comparison  which   I   think  sometimes 
is   the   mightiest   in    our    language  —  that   comparison ',  of 
this   successive  outsending  and  inbringing  of  the  worlds 
by  the  Creator  at  the  centre  of  things  to  the  beating  of  the 
heart    of  God.      So   the   great    swarm    of    gnats    had   its 
systole  and  diastole,  and  beat  like  the  pulse  of  the  worlds. 
And  thus,  finally,  with  each  ever-dancing  gnat  repre- 
senting, now  the  round  of  the   atom   in  all    those    forms 
which   we   call    nature,  now  the    function    of   the    sound- 
vibration  as  an  element  in  that  form  which  we  call  verse, 
now  the  huge  periodicity  of  the  whirling  world  in  space, — 
and  with   all   these  individual   elements  vibrating  each  in 
his  own  little  sphere  of  life,  combining  into  larger  forms 
which  perhaps  no  individual  gnat  dreamed  of,  just  as  our 
little  spheres  of  activity  in   life   surely  combine  into  some 


MAN'S    RELATIONS   TO    NATURE     329 

greater  form  or  purpose  which  none  of  us  dream  of,  and 
which  no  one  can  see  save  some  unearthly  spectator  that 
stands  afar  off  in  space  and  looks  upon  the  whole  of 
things, —  I  was  impressed  anew  with  the  fact  that  it  is  the 
poet  who  must  get  up  to  this  point  and  stand  off  in 
thought  at  the  great  distance  of  the  ideal,  look  upon  the 
complex  swarm  of  purposes  as  upon  these  dancing  gnats, 
and  find  out  for  man  the  final  form  and  purpose  of  man's 
life.  In  short, —  and  here  I  am  ending  this  course  with  the 
idea  with  which  I  began  it, —  in  short,  it  is  the  poet  who 
must  sit  at  the  centre  of  things  here,  as  surely  as  some  great 
One  sits  at  the  centre  of  things  Yonder,  and  who  must 
teach  us  how  to  control,  with  temperance  and  perfect  art 
and  unforgetfulness  of  detail,  all  our  oppositions,  so  that 
we  may  come  to  say  with  Aristotle,  at  last,  that  poetry  is 
more  philosophical  than  philosophy  and  more  historical 
than  history. 

Permit  me  to  thank  you  earnestly  for  the  patience 
with  which  you  have  listened  to  many  details  that  must 
have  been  dry  to  you  ;  and  let  me  sincerely  hope  that, 
whatever  may  be  your  oppositions  in  life,  whether  of  the 
verse  kind  or  the  moral  kind,  you  may  pass,  like  Shak- 
spere,  through  these  planes  of  the  Dream  Period  and  the 
Real  Period,  until  you  have  reached  the  ideal  plane  from 
which  you  clearly  see  that  wherever  Prospero's  art  and 
Prospero's  love  and  Prospero's  forgiveness  of  injuries  rule 
in  behaviour,  there  a  blue  sky  and  a  quiet  heaven  full  of 
sun  and  stars  are  shining  over  every  tempest. 


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